Let's Be Honest With Ourselves About Hackgate

#Hackgate #NOTW #Murdoch - if you're on Twitter these are the go-to hashtags for proving you've got your finger on the political pulse.  If you're on any news site, you're urged to visit the live streaming of events; the latest resignation, confession, lawsuit.  My view on the whole debacle?  Disgraceful, absolutely.  Complete invasion of privacy?  Without a doubt. Something we'll probably forget about or get used to?  Pretty likely. 

Think of the issues that have raised our national hackles in the past few years; oil prices, cash for influence, expenses, bankers' bonuses...for a while we're appalled, outraged, demanding justice, or at the very least all the juicy details. And then?  Business as usual.  Should we do more or realise that we're a fickle bunch? 

It was an intrusion too far - way too far - when news surfaced that the News of the World commissioned a private investigator to hack into the voicemail of (at that stage) missing teenager Milly Dowler, with the hope that an exclusive would be forthcoming.  What was forthcoming instead, from this despicable action, was hope. But it was the worst kind of hope for the family of a missing schoolgirl - it was false hope.  The British public was absolutely revolted by this flagrant disregard for a family's privacy in the direst of times - so we started baying for blood; the News of the World's, the Murdochs', Rebekah Brooks', John Yates', our newsagent's for selling the News of the World...Fast forward a week or two and we've had a select committee hearing; whose sole purpose seems to be to satisfy the public's wish to humiliate the Murdochs and hear the words, "We were wrong."  As it turns out, what with #piegate and #slapgate, even if the Murdochs had prostrated themselves on the floor at Louise Mensch's feet and cried remorseful, earnest tears we wouldn't have noticed, we were all too busy giggling at Jonnie Marble's "You naughty billionaire" insult.  Rebekah who?

Having an ethical, fair media is something we believe we're entitled to, just as we believe we're entitled to politicians who aren't the bedfellows (reluctant or otherwise) of said media. So should we vote with our feet at the next election or our newsstand? By all means, if you genuinely consider your chosen alternative can provide you with the principles you crave, then get those shoes on. In all likelihood though, as you pause to tie your metaphorical shoelaces, you will hear the barely audible sound of hands being rubbed together in glee; and if you're lucky, you'll catch a whisper of incriminating emails, phone records and Facebook friends being deleted before they welcome you with open arms. 

I don't think we'll vote with our feet; neither will many of us protest, sign any petitions, write any letters or do anything more taxing than try to think of a pithy line on Twitter to demonstrate our displeasure. By August, there'll be a new hashtag, Murdoch won't be synonymous with Lex Luther and our national outrage will be directed towards something else.

Yes, we'll still respond with a grave shake of the head if it comes up in conversation, just as we do when someone reminds us of the moat we cleaned for Douglas Hogg, or the fact that we might have to fork out £9,000 to send one of our kids to university. I'd love to believe that this whole affair will bring about a change, but that's not fair on the thousands of upstanding, ethical people working in journalism and politics. Saying they're all as bad as each other is our way to feel comfortable with doing nothing, to excuse our short attention span and- OMG did you see Kate Middleton's outfit??

So.  Didn't win the Euromillions.  If you follow me on Twitter (yes all 3 of you) you might already know that.  So it's back to the blogging board.  Following on from the success of yesterday's blog....33 new views and 3 new followers, (yes, I am aware most of the views were from me refreshing the page but hey, needs must, people!) I have decided that slightly less ranty posts are the way to go at least for the downhill part of the week. 


Very exciting news this morning in Stylist magazine; Caitlin Moran, (hilarious columnist from The Times) is doing a book reading in Laandan town next Thursday of her very own book, How to Be a Woman. Now, ordinarily her columns make me chortle, snort (oh come on, you do it too) and occasionally laugh so hard a little bit of pee comes out, so imagine the mad dash for some Pampers that ensued upon hearing the news of her having her very own book.  Anyway - in typical disorganised fashion I had yet to buy it, which I remedied yesterday afternoon, as obviously I couldn't go to her very own book reading without having read it - how else would I laugh knowingly and nod sagely at the right parts next Thursday?


Naturally I pounced on it like Rebekah Brooks on an advertiser as soon as I got home.  So far it's exactly as expected; the writing is sharper than Picasso's pencil, and the humour is closer to the bone than Gregory House's scalpel but more than that it really gets you thinking about there being no guidebook on being a woman; just to clarify, by this I mean a guide for women on how to be a woman, rather than those with...ahem...aspirations.  She tackles everything from marriage to what to call our mammaries and a fair few other 'm's in between.  It's not so much a guidebook as a recollection (and a bit of rant - you can see why I like her) of the pitfalls and potholes of her own becoming a woman, but nevertheless the bumps along the way are ones that all our teeth have rattled over.

While we're on the subject, a general guide to being a grown up would be marvellous too.  Is there anyone else out there who is still waiting to become a grown up? For example, by the ripe old age of 28 I fully expected to have been a child star and be able to wolf whistle (for hailing a cab in NYC of course.)  Admittedly these are two of the more frivolous talents, but there are other life skills that, far from feeling I "missed out" on, I rather feel I ran and hid in the toilets when, for example, The Underwear Ironing Masterclass was being held.  And more disturbingly I still don't really want to learn (I still ask my Mum why on earth she irons dishcloths.) 


Mind you though, there are plenty of things I would love to be able to do - making do and mending are high on the list, rather than spending a small African country's GDP at the dry cleaners each month...alternatively I could just not hang out with people who spill things on me, or not hang out with...myself.  If I chat to my friends I am amazed at their ingenuity and their skills at this stuff - well, that's not quite true, I think if I'm fair, we all have different skills.  Whereas I admire my best friend's financial savvy; her books are always balanced and her account is always in the black, I don't envy her (admittedly infrequent) forgetfulness when it comes to adding water to pasta.  Other friends are amazingly tidy and organised, but couldn't wire a plug to save their life*. 


So that's my blog for today - no moral, no rant; if anything just a request to the publishing company John Wiley & Sons - please bring out a Being a Grown Up for Dummies Guide, it'll make a 28 year old child very happy.


*Oh yes, neither could I - do you now see why I need a guide?!