Priceless.

THERE'S nothing quite like the blindingly obvious to kick off an old-fashioned political scandal.

So the revelation that a seat at Dishface's personal marble-topped dinner table was available for £250,000 is firstly not a surprise, and secondly a meaty bit of news.

We don't like the idea of our politicians being bought and paid for by people who wish to sway official policy their way when we haven't voted for 'their way'.

But politics was ever thus. It's an expensive business, trading all that snake-oil, and it has to be funded somehow. Red, blue or yellow, the cash comes ultimately from working people who slave to give money to someone else who then spends it on the politician he chooses. It's never been fair.

And no-one signs a cheque without expecting to get something in return. None of us would. I wouldn't spend more than a tenner unless it improved my life in some way, whether by providing a bottle of sauvignon, a nice book or some new heels in the sale.

Even if I had £250,000 Dishface could not persuade me to give him it, not unless he offered to let me use his exoskeleton one day a week so I could masquerade as Prime Minister, meet the Queen and call her 'Betty', rearrange the pasty tax and leave him annoying notes to find on his return.

OF COURSE major political donors pay for access. OF COURSE politicians fall over themselves to suckle at the corporate teat. It may be a disgrace, we may wish it were different, but it's not. Not unless you want the taxpayer to start footing the bill.

Consider what the politicians are already doing with what we give them. They're planning to spend £500,000 on iPads, for a start; Dishface is splurging £20,000 on an app to help him run the country (I have often thought he thinks it's one big game of Angry Birds); and now the Parliamentary spending watchdog IPSA has decided it will not publish the kind of MPs' receipts which three years ago led to the expenses scandal.

There are three options: 1) Either these people fund themselves, and people will attempt to purchase MPs and ministers wholesale; 2) We give them the shirts off our backs too; 3) We get rid of politicians altogether, and have a system like jury service where anyone over 18 can get called up and has to do a year in Westminster on the national average wage. This last one would mean an end to political parties, which I don't think we'd miss much.

Whichever system we have, people like me will continue to poke our noses into it. It's been a sticky 12 months or so for the Press, under attack from all quarters regardless of whether we work for up, middle or downmarket papers. But the good news for us is that this latest scandal is the first to have struck Dishface without - as yet - producing immediate criticism of the journalists who uncovered it.

The normal technique of his PR machine is to blame the hacks concerned in off-the-record briefings, more often than not using the phrase 'tabloid techniques' as though it were an insult rather than a hallmark of popular and thorough journalism.

Just over a year ago a Cabinet minister was embarrassed almost to the point of resignation after being caught on camera having private conversations with journalists pretending to be someone else. Vince Cable threatened to bring down the government and discussed official policy on Rupert Murdoch's bid to take over BSkyB. Outrageously those journos and their paper were censured for using subterfuge by the Press Complaints Commission despite the obvious ethical and public interest value of their work.

This latest scandal has come from precisely the same kind of investigation - journalists using pretence to get unguarded answers from someone in power. They had hidden cameras and fake business cards, the kind of tricks which the News of the World (RIP) used so often, and for precisely the same reasons. Of course this time the journos work for a snoresheet, so perhaps that is why their 'tabloid techniques' haven't had the criticism they might if they worked for a red-top.

The fact is those techniques, and the work of all the journalists from different papers who use them, are absolutely priceless.

It's just a pity the same can't be said of our Prime Minister.

The tide always turns.

Good news for some.

A FREELANCE friend told me last week about trying to sell a story to a national newspaper. "I rang them up," he said, "and it was like talking to someone who'd just been in a car accident."

On the one hand, journos will always complain newsdesks aren't treating their stories with the Watergate-shattering respect they deserve. And on the other he had a point. The combination of phone-hacking and corruption scandals, a public inquiry and three police investigations are having a serious effect on even those of us who are not under suspicion.

If you open a national newspaper today, you'll have to look hard to find a story that hasn't come from a press office, showbiz agent or what's known as a 'buy-up' - when someone comes to us for a full sit-down chat and a cheque.

Today The Scum splashed on a buy-up with the mum of a £45m lottery winner. The Daily Glimmer went with a story from the wires about a baby killed in an American tornado, the Wail with information from an FOI request, The Groaner's done Russia, The Tims did the opinion of a Falklands War vet and the Wellygraph led with a behind-the-scenes briefing from our beloved Chancellor Gideon.

They're are all perfectly reasonable stories, got in perfectly reasonable ways. On a Monday papers have less news in than the rest of the week because they were prepared on Sunday when there's very little going on, and without the Screws (RIP) setting the agenda there's less material for the dailies to mop up. But I've sat and read all of today's papers and I can't for the life of me see a story about crime, politics or health that hasn't been officially approved in some respect.

Critics will say this just goes to show that all such yarns were got via criminal means, and now the guilty parties are so scared of being caught they've cleaned up their act. But a more realistic person will wonder whether all newspapers would have had the budgets to pay a bung or hack a phone on every story, never mind the inclination. In my experience the vast majority of tales come from somebody telling someone else something for free, as a bit of gossip, sometimes with and sometimes without realising that information would be passed on to a journalist.

I've known celebrities who tell their friends things on the clear understanding it will end up in print, and I've known stories which came about because someone sat and gossipped to their hairdresser, who in turn repeated it to the next client who just happened to be the wife of a journo having her roots done. Coppers I've dealt with over the years generally tell you stuff for free, for exactly the same reasons that celebrities, politicians and showbiz PRs do - because it makes someone look good. A good journo takes such briefings with a pinch of salt, but listens to them all the same. Vanity works harder than money does.

The scrutiny the Press is under is fair enough. Criminals need to be investigated and held to account, whatever business they're in. But the timing of an inquiry being held before the criminal cases which sparked it, the investigations which are being dragged out over years, is leading to what can only be called a story crunch - just like an economic recession, only with a lack of public information.

Without a single criminal case being heard or conviction won, journalism has become a trade where the phone has stopped ringing. A copper on a case who thinks his superiors have screwed it up is not going to take the risk of a quiet word in a journo's ear. A soldier who has had to spend thousands of pounds buying his own kit isn't going to get his mum to ring a newspaper on his behalf. A teaching assistant, council clerk, librarian, prison officer, dustman or anyone else employed on a public wage is going to be terrified of losing their job if they flog a tip for £50 - and it's tips which are often the first step on the story ladder, which allow an investment of time and effort to build up to a really good scandal.

Do you think politicians have stopped lying? Do you believe prisoners are all being well-behaved, that celebrities have turned their backs on drugs and hookers, doctors have stopped making mistakes, or that the courts only jail the guilty and let the innocent walk free? Those stories are still happening. We just aren't hearing about it.

And if they're scared, then so are we. Hacks worry every phone call and email could be handed over to the police, that papers won't protect the sources we work hard to reassure, that so much as buying a pint for a CPS lawyer after court will see everyone involved collared by a police force under pressure to compensate for its previous mistakes. We err on the side of extreme caution rather than take a risk.

Which of course is good news for some. Particularly if you're in charge of a government overseeing controversial changes to the criminal justice and welfare systems, sacking thousands and cutting benefits. It's good news too if you are one of the top bods in the Met Police, and want to tell other people what is and is not in the public interest without letting them make up their own minds.

It's quite good if you're a publicist who can threaten cowed journalists, or a celebrity with a book or DVD to sell, and it's bloody brilliant if this time last year you were a Prime Minister facing difficult questions on how much you knew about the whole damn mess when you employed one of its central figures as your spin doctor.

And it's more marvellous still if you are a lawyer acting for one of the truly guilty individuals who not only corrupted others but became corrupt themselves, who twisted my trade and abused their position for their own gain. Because not only is there a bucketload of billable hours in this, when it finally comes to court your client will walk.

I do not want news that has been approved by a press officer, run past the police or checked against Hugh Grant's moral compass first. I want my news back - cleaned of criminality and paying off its debts but just as badly-behaved and mischievous as it ever was, kicking over the dustbins, cocking a snook and scribbling away frantically because it had a really, really good story to tell.

Maybe tomorrow?

Scrutiny stills the hand, even if it's not a guilty hand.

Pity the hack.

THERE are grim jobs, dirty jobs, and downright bloody awful ones. But possibly the worst in Fleet Street this week will be whatever poor soul has to ghostwrite Nancy Dell'Olio's new 'style' column.

Yours truly was sniffing around the Wapping bins last night and found an early draft - covered in the Editor's angry red pen, it must be said - clutched to the chest of an exhausted hack unconscious through self-medication and slumped in a nice warm gutter.

Enjoy.

Dear Nancy,

I have worn the same white shirt to the office every day for 16 years. I quite like it but the rest of my colleagues say I'm boring and to be honest there are yellow patches under the arms and the collar is so frayed it's more of a ruff. What's your advice?

Yours,

A.N.Other Crime Reporter

Buongiorno. Is easy, you silly silly boy. You wear nice yellow shirt so patches no show, I like the silky satin ones they make me feel sexio, here is a-one for you. Next!

Dear Nancy,

I've been using the same gothic eye makeup since I was a teenager but now I'm a wizened 27-year-old I think I've outgrown it. Trouble is I can't find a new look that suits me. Have you got any make-up tips?

Yours,

Winesoaked Hack

You are little older than Nancy (yes, I know! Is difficult believe I only 25!) and probably donna have a millionaire ex-boyfriend like me who still pay for house and olive-oil massages. I always find that a very light touch with makeup is best as we liedies mature, nothing too heavy, but just enough to make all the guys go a-crazy! My look is very naturale and take me only two hours to apply with trowel. Here is picture me before and after.

Dear Nancy,

I have been working in the fashion world for years but can't seem to make it pay, with the added problem that I never feel like I'm good enough. Do you have any advice how to make it as a style columnist and feel better about myself?

Yours,

Liz Jones

I am style columnist as everyone love my style. When I was on Strictly Come Dancing everyone vote to keep me in they like me so much and me so good. I suggest you try sequins and thick orange tights, or hang out with Tony Beak. He available now, we no speak much. If you more like Nancy you feel better soon.

Dear Nancy,

Every time I put a new frock on everyone demands to know where it's from and calls me a style icon. It's exhausting because I worry about letting people down and worry that one day I will put my foot in it and wear something everyone hates. I do my own make-up but I think my best asset is my hair.

Yours,

Kate, Duchess of Cambridge

You are moderately attractive girl who has fooled some of public into liking you, however you need to up your game if you want be true fashion goddess like me. Have you considered wearing a tomato-red catsuit next time you visit an addiction charity? Your hair all right but too long, maybe you should cut it all off.

Dear Nancy,

In my job I need to be inconspicuous and after decades of skulking outside people's houses I own 30 pairs of khaki trousers, two dozen grey hoodies and am incapable of using anything but a water bottle to wee in. Turning up at parties I can go unnoticed for hours at a time, at least until I relieve myself behind a curtain. How can I dress with more flair?

Yours,

Pap Erazzi

You stinky man. Why you no shave? Sit in car all day poo in bag. You need toilet training and proper wardrobe of clothes you wan keep nice. This dress from one my favourite designer, I think when you go to party people notice you more like this. Statement hats very IN this season.

Dear Nancy,

When can I have my house back?

Sven

Who you? I no hear what you say. La la la la la.

A meaty, messy business.

JOURNALISTS are often accused of romanticising their profession, especially when one of our own dies.

It's true that a tendency to lyricise and the constant criticism we get means we often talk about freedom of speech and fighting for the little man and the nobler justifications of our trade.

Sometimes that's right. More often though we deal with humanity at its extremes - crime, death, birth, heartbreak, revenge - and whether you're dealing with a wronged lover, a violent criminal or the recently bereaved, journalism is a meaty, messy business which is not for the faint of spirit.

You don't get far wearing rose-tinted spectacles. And there is no higher part of my profession nor one so grisly as the work of covering a war. It is one of the most valuable and worthy things any reporter or photographer can do, the greatest risk they can take, and of course the one most likely to end badly. It is the thing most guaranteed to impress other journalists beyond measure, an extremely difficult feat among seasoned cynics.

Today Sunday Times reporter Marie Colvin and French photographer Remi Ochlik - both of them award winners - were killed in the Syrian city of Homs as they covered the shelling of civilians by President Bashar Assad.

The snapper working with Marie, Paul Conroy, was injured. He's probably being cared for by the very limited resources of the opposition, while Marie and Remi's bodies have yet to be recovered. Their editors are trying their best to bring them all home, while the city remains under fire.

I do not know any of the people concerned, so it's not for me to write about them. Their friends will do that I am sure. And I've never been to war, a fact which makes my mother glad and me a little wistful.

There are those who, when those obituaries are written, will say we hacks treat each other better than we do others, that we show more grace and remorse when a fellow vulture tumbles off the perch than we do to the average deaths we deal with. Perhaps that is case. But then average deaths are usually due to accident, insanity or circumstance - when a hack dies in harness it's usually because they chose to take that risk.

At a memorial service at the journalists' church St Brides last year ITV news anchor Mark Austin said people often do not understand why we run towards danger rather than away from it. Usually it's for those higher goals, and sometimes if we've done it too often it's because we've become addicted to it, as we become attached to so many things in this job - the stories, the gossip, the black humour, the free drinks.

Because, you see, there are two sides to a journalist's brain. On the one hand there is a human part, the bit which knows your mum worries, that this job is bizarre, the side of you which is moved to tears when someone tells you a heart-rending tale. A good journalist never, ever loses that side to them because it is what makes them good, it gives them empathy and understanding.

On the other hand is the news gatherer, the bit of your head which is occupied with getting the right turn of phrase, capturing an image, and getting a copy of the receipt. The bit which fires up, when you are stood amid a sea of dead and rotting corpses and the human side of your head wants to vomit itself inside out and get on the first plane home, and tells you 'this is BRILLIANT'.

While I've never been to war, I've been to that place. I've sat amid carnage and wondered why I can't cry at the same time as scribbling notes and thinking 'this is writing like melted butter, it's going to sail onto the front'. When I was 18 and on my first local paper I came in to work one day to see my chief reporter crash the phone back on the hook and say to me excitedly: "There's been a murder on your patch!" And my response was: "GREAT!"

That's when you know you're a hack - when you run towards the bad things. Since then I've put myself in places where I was far from safe, where the mere fact of my presence meant my mum didn't sleep for a week or I've decided not to tell her I was there until I wasn't any more. I've stood and watched things I can't fix but tear my heart apart to see, and I've come home with a thousand-yard stare to my boss telling me to take some time off and put my head back together.

I have friends who have died and been injured. I have mates who quite literally skip when told they're going to Afghanistan. And half of me is envious of them, while the other half thinks they're nuts. Everyone else in a war gets a gun, and all we have is a pen or a camera. And half the time I can never find my pen.

Maybe we're just screw-ups, and this job keeps us out of the asylum and safely medicated in the pub. I've been on jobs that were horrendous by day and every evening, once our copy was filed, the press pack tore the town up and drank every bar in the place dry. In those circumstances the hangover actually makes you feel a bit better.

But the end result, whatever our motivation or however much of our brains is given over to trying to get a sexy byline shot or the front page, is that someone sees the things no-one else wants to. Maybe it means knocking on a rapist's door late at night, finding the right words to describe an unspeakable thing, or sneaking into a city under siege from the forces of a dictator to tell the world what's happening.

We bear witness, however unbearable we find it ourselves, and there's not a single journo dead or alive who will tell you that's not worth doing, and that usually it's as far from romantic or rose-tinted as you can get.

So while I didn't know them, I'll raise a glass to Marie and Remi tonight - and take my hat off to two brave people who didn't have to do what they did, but thought someone ought to do it anyway.

Thank you, 2011.

OOF. Another 365 days have passed and the whole world is marking it at an arbitrary point in time after which everything is much the same as it was before, only with a hangover.

It must be said though that the annual habit of taking a step back to survey what has passed is a pleasing one, and when I bought a 2012 diary the other day I had a lot of fun going through the 2011 one to transfer all the birthdays and seeing where I was and what or whom I was doing.

Journalistic round-ups of the year are a massive ball-ache for the poor sod who has to write them, so I won't bore you with one here. If you can be bothered Charlie Brooker's Wipe 2011 does a reasonable job of it, although there seems to be more on phone-hacking than the Arab Spring (which involved rather more deaths and democracy and will probably affect more lives in the long run). Anyway you can watch it here to make up your own minds and if you get as far as 15 minutes in there's 90 seconds of yours truly saying super-injunctions were a farce.

I don't know about you but lots has happened in my year - the first half was bit rubbish and the second half was brilliant. I got my book deal and there are already a couple of projects in the pipeline for 2012 which I can't tell you about yet.

This time last year I didn't have this blog - I'm not sure what I have now that I do, but it's fun and lots of you seem to like it, so I might as well carry on. A handful of people will never like a tabloid journalist, or me, or what I say, and that's fine. I have neither the time nor medical expertise to convince them otherwise anyway.

During the course of the past year many of you have taken the time and effort to email, Facebook or Tweet me thanks, praise, abuse, questions, thoughts and demands. Whether you agree with me or not it's amazing - interaction is what teaches us about each other, and makes the world a better place. No-one ever died from debate.

The best thing I have discovered this year is that there are many people out there who quietly watch, read, and listen, and absorb without saying a word. When they do it is a little message to say what I wrote made them laugh, think a bit, or that while they still hate journalists they think I'm all right. Usually they manage to say it just as I am despairing over something, and it perks me right up.

Scott wrote:

"I'm not interesting or special or talented so there's no reason why you should care what I think, but as the year draws to an end I wanted to send a brief note of gratitude to you (and the two other bloggers I read). 

I appreciate that the investment in the blog must be great, especially as it comes on top of a busy (and often emotional) job and, no doubt, personal life. It must be difficult sometimes to keep it so consistently good. But please do. The reason I only read three blogs is primarily due to time but also because there's an awful lot of shite around. Fleet Street Fox offers a perspective which makes me think more about things. This makes me a bit more considered, a bit less willing to jump to a conclusions and I like to think, a bit better all round.

Best wishes for the year ahead, the book launch, the continued success of the blog and everything else. Thanks again."

And Nic said:

"This will probably sound ridiculous but having read your blog since its inception and hearing snippets of abuse you have gone through from your ex and as a result of your job, yet you seem to be stronger because of it and just as secure and defiant in your own mind, it really gives me hope for my future.
I have emailed some stranger before and it is likely irrelevant to you but it means the world to me and I felt compelled to thank you. So... Thank you x"

Both of which were rather lovely to receive.

So let me repay the compliment to thank all of you - for reading, retweeting and sharing, for clicking on adverts and whatever attention you pay to this daft idiot on the internet. I'm glad we know each other. And if there is someone out there who has done you a turn this year, then pick up the phone and thank them too.

Now go and get pissed. 2012 is coming round and I swear it's bringing a bottle of vodka with it.

You're brilliant, is what you are.

The Foxtivity.

AND it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree from Gideon the Chancellor of the Exchequer that all the world should be taxed, as he'd run out of everyone else's money and wouldn't be inheriting daddy's for a while.

And all went to be taxed, everyone to his own city. And Hugh Grant went up from Chelsea, out of Paparazzi City where he strangely kept living, unto the city of Privacy, to be taxed with SamCam Bletherington Posh-Girl Smythe, his espoused wife, being great with child.

And they travelled on an ass named Superinjunction, and tried to get a room at The Savoy but he wasn't wearing a tie, and The Dorchester but the Queen was staying and she hated Four Weddings, and then the Travelodge at Clackett Lane Services but Hugh didn't like the ambience of the toilets. Hugh lastly tried The Temple of St Paul's but the pastor closed the doors upon him, saying: "We are full, there are many bankers in here already and we're still cleaning up since the last time we let the hoi polloi in."

As SamCam Bletherington Posh-Girl Smythe forebore her condition with only the occasional demand for an iced latte and a foot rub Hugh decided they must camp in the square outside St Paul's, even though they had no cash because Europe and Gideon and the bankers and a sub-prime mortgage scandal on the other side of the world had taken it all. So he bought a tent and heater and an iPhone charger, and got a Starbucks loyalty card as they must have the basics in life.

And as the hippies also living in that place huffed and puffed and organised LGBT inclusion committees SamCam was delivered of her firstborn child, conceived she had insisted while she was a virgin at the behest of an angel of the Lord and certainly not the lad next door whispering things through an impressionable 14-year-old's bedroom window.

She swaddled the baby in designer tat and laid him in a manger the hippies were using to feed their chihuahuas, because there was no room for them at the inn.

And behold there came three hacks from EC4A asking everyone they met: "Where is the child that is born of two celebrities? For we have seen it in the Star and are come to worship him, for the babe will sell many papers and pay our bar bills which are great."

When Charlie Boy the king heard these things he was troubled, for he thought celebrities would take attention away from serious news such as his latest green charity initiative although he was happy if no-one mentioned his running costs, the ex-wife or what his younger brothers were up to.

And Charlie Boy gathered all the chief scribes of Fleet Street together, and demanded they tell him where this child had been born. And they said unto him, we have not got a clue, how are we supposed to know? And he said, come along, I am not as stupid as I look, have you got Hugh's mobile number? And the scribes were shocked and said, how can you suggest such a thing, and Charlie Boy raised an eyebrow and said, if you don't tell me you're not getting on any more of my foreign junkets, and the scribes said, all right his best mate's told us he's at St Paul's but we only had to buy him a pint and not hack his phone, you'd be surprised how many friends and rellies hate the famous people they know, and Charlie Boy said Andrew's been seeing some Krgyztani bird you know, might be worth a look...

Then Charlie Boy sent the three hacks up the road with instructions to find the child and tell him about the babe, as he was as fascinated as everyone else in the country even though he liked to pretend he was above gossip which he wasn't as he was a human being and quite missed reading the News of the World.

The hacks departed and dressed as fake sheikhs followed the flashlights till they came and stood over where the young child was. And when they were come into the tent, they saw the young child with SamCam its mother, and took their picture and asked them to say how happy they were, and she said, piss off have you stolen my medical records, and Hugh insisted they must have bugged the donkey, and the hacks said do not be daft, there's a bloody great flashing light in the sky and besides the hippies rang the newsroom because they wanted fifty quid and you can't bug a donkey, we have tried it. Then they opened their treasures, and presented unto them gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh. And Hugh said, what use is this? And SamCam said your hands need a wash mate.

Then the three fake sheikhs asked for a receipt, and Hugh Grant kicked them from the stable.

Being warned in a drunken haze they should not return to the newsroom without a story, the three wise hacks knocked off and went to the pub. And an Angel of the Lord appeared to Hugh Grant in a dream, saying arise and take the child into Mustique, and stay there until I get a superinjunction to make all this go away.

And Charlie Boy seeing that he was mocked by the wise hacks for talking to plants and wanting to be a tampon, sent forth to slay all the celebrities in a Christmas bloodbath. He said, there is always one dies every Christmas, everyone knows that, and what is wrong if they all kark it.

Then The Babe spoke from its manger, and a few people who could be bothered stopped to listen for a minute.

And The Babe spat its dummy out and said: "Aside from the murder thing, which is bad, if you kill all celebrities and the hacks are not able to write about them any more then their newspapers will not sell, and The Reader will not see the really important but quite boring story on page 27. The boring things are the ones that matter most, but if people liked being bored The Groaner would sell millions and it don't. So let the tabs poke fun and entertain, so long as they treat others as they like to be treated themselves, and let the snoresheets help old men to sleep in the afternoons, and suffer the little celebrities to come to me to get their careers started until a few years later they turn round and moan about their privacy. We can forgive them, for they know not what they do. Let us love our enemies, for without them we would be bored."

And people thought for a minute, and saw The Babe had a point, even if they did not agree with all of it, and went about their business pretty much the same as they did before.

And The Babe wondered how to get a bottle of sauvignon blanc past mummy and daddy.

(With thanks to Nick Stern for the picture)

Cheeky monkeys.

THERE are a group of people without whom not a single newspaper would ever be produced.

They are regarded as the very worst denizens of Fleet Street, lower and more unpleasant than the clichéd hack in a dirty mac prepared to steal a picture of a dead baby out of its weeping mother's hands: photographers.

Also variously known as toggies, snappers, phots, monkeys (they tend to gibber and scratch themselves) and far ruder terms hurled by police, the public, bouncers and celebrities they are quite possibly the least understood part of my trade. And not just because they're always talking about apertures, popping focus and light levels, which might as well be in Mandarin for all the difference it makes to me and my biro.

They don't shove cameras in people's faces, because the shot would be blurred; they back away as they shoot to maintain focus. They don't spend hours digitally removing girls' underwear, because most papers don't use those shots and snappers never have the time. They can sit in blacked out white vans in 90-degree heat for 20 hours at a time relieving themselves in water bottles and ZipLock bags, they can be unbearably disgusting, they can be lazy and smelly and miss the shot so you have to do it all again tomorrow, but I've never met one who was anything but bright, clever, and funny.

They are often called paparazzi, when in fact they're a different species entirely. Paps work for themselves and agencies, earn only for a shot, and therefore do anything to get a shot that will earn. The guys who shift for Fleet Street get paid whether something happens or not, just like the hacks. They're more professional, usually trained up through local papers, and the best today can take, edit and wire a picture in minutes while lighting a fag, slurping a coffee, filching a receipt without breaking stride and reminiscing about the time they had to 'dev' their own film in a hotel broom cupboard with some duct tape and household chemicals while taking enemy fire and saving some idiotic reporter from themselves.

Back in the day some papers would have up to 100 staff photographers on the payroll, kitted up, expensed and pensioned at The Proprietor's cost. As times changed, budgets were cut and more expensive digital equipment came in those snappers were put out to grass. Today you might get one or two staff phots on a paper, and a couple of dozen ever-changing freelances who graft eight days a week and buy their own gear - starting price around £20,000.

Kate McCann recently claimed snappers hit her car with their delicate lenses to get her attention; not at that price, they don't. What does happen, when you get a lot of snappers in one place, is a bunfight where the guys at the back push and shove the guy at the front into the car they're all trying to take a photograph of. I've never seen a snapper intentionally hit anything with his camera, but I've seen plenty of times where they get shoved, bust a lens and then turn around and punch the guy responsible.

I've seen tiny snappers lifted off the ground and pinned by the throat to a wall by a bouncer twice their size, who'll straighten his assailant's tie and ask him out on a date. I've thrown myself between a man with a lump of wood and the snapper he wanted to batter, I've cried on their shoulders, taken them to hospital, shared luxury and dysenteric hotel rooms with them, and given up teaching them how to spell. In return they generally try to poison me with Jagermeister and ask me to write their captions.

Monkeys are my mates. A hack and a snapper will pair up on a story and, whether you're sharing a car for 18 hours on a doorstep or hurtling around Africa trying not to get killed, that's your wingman. You are comrades, not just colleagues, and few stories get in without a picture to back them up.

I love photographers individually and as a whole, but when a group of them get together on a job it's, well, special. The collective noun is a 'circus', and if you imagine the music and behaviour of half a dozen clowns with a miniature fire engine you wouldn't be far wrong.

In April 1984 WPC Yvonne Fletcher was shot during protests outside the Libyan Embassy in St James' Square. For days afterwards the square was on lockdown as suspicion focused on her killer being a member of embassy staff, and police snipers crawled all over the roofs to get a clear view into the embassy windows.

Alongside them on the less-useful roofs were the crack shots of Fleet Street, armed to the teeth with sidepacks of film, long lenses and brick-sized mobile phones.

Unfortunately as the siege went on the plane trees in the square burst into bud, obscuring the snappers' view. Undeterred the inventive little tykes called up a tree surgeon and instructed him to come and cut a couple of branches down. The poor chap scaled a trunk only to fall off, pierce his foot on a metal railing, and be carted off to hospital.

The lads cursed, and called another landscaper who arrived but then announced he was scared of heights. The painters-with-light were probably wondering which hack they could force to shinny up there to do it when the first tree surgeon came back, bandaged and limping, and was ordered to finish off the job. With snappers on the roof shouting instructions into their new mobile phone, and police snipers watching it all with shaking heads, the chappie cut a window in the trees so the cameras could get a decent view of the front door.

You might be forgiven for thinking these dedicated gentlemen of Grub Street then sat on that roof, day and night to get their picture, their poor forgotten wives sending up home-made sandwiches and blankets to keep them warm.

But no. Instead they lined up their cameras so they'd all get the same shot, set the focus, wired them together so they could be fired simultaneously, and buggered off down the pub while leaving the youngest member of their troupe on the roof with the instructions: "If anything moves, press the button."

Oh, and they each claimed for the full cost of hiring a tree surgeon.

Shortly before taking an extended refreshment break... clockwise front to back Dave Hill (Sun), Crispy Bacon (PA) Chris Barham (Mail) John Marks (Times) Francis Rosambeau (Time / Life) Mike Moore (Standard) and Peter Wilcock (Star). With many thanks to Wilco for letting me use it.

Good ol' Grub Street.

THERE are two stories dominating the news today - the Leveson inquiry into the behaviour of the Press, and the trial into the racist murder of Stephen Lawrence 18 years ago.

The two are entirely unlinked except for the fact they both hinge on the tabloids. If it were not for the worst excesses of - so far - five employees at the Screws of the World there would be no phone-hacking scandal, no closure of that newspaper, and no inquiry into whether and how to clean up Grub Street.

And if it were not for the same tabloid Press there is every chance Stephen's family would not now be sitting in a court watching the trial of two of the five men who have long been thought to have have murdered him.

In both cases there are many other factors that brought us here - someone leaving the evidence to be found, promotion of people without a moral compass to roles that need one, police failures and forensic experts finding things they'd once overlooked.

And where one is an appalling example of people acting beyond their powers for stories that weren't worth it, and traducing the reputation of the profession I love, the other is something to be proud of.

The Daily Wail has its critics, and rightly so. But it gives us Liz Jones and pictures of kittens dressed up as David Bowie, so it's all right in my book. And on Valentine's Day 1997, four years after Stephen's death as the police inquiry foundered, as it was announced the men thought to be responsible would not be tried and as the whole country despaired along with Stephen's parents, it did this:

It was brilliant journalism, because it hit every single target the tabloid press has to. It caught, perfectly, the prevailing mood of the nation. It summed up a complicated story in one word. It sold in its millions. And there was no chance they would ever be sued for it, because to do so would have led to those men probably being found culpable of murder in a civil court.

It was a brilliant flourish, and the effect was to reignite a scandal which was fading. It led to a public inquiry and a continued police investigation which is what has led us back to court this week after a re-examination of the forensic evidence.

That's why it was brilliant. Had The Groaner done it, around 200,000-odd city-based readers would have thought 'you can't say that!', so they'd never have had the guts. The same goes for the rest of the snoresheets, because they don't have the same weight as a paper which sells. Any of the tabloids could have made that stand, but only one did.

In the next few weeks and months those same tabloids - many of whose reporters had their phones hacked by Glenn Mulcaire, but none of whom have yet been found to have employed his services or his tactics - are defending themselves in front of Lord Leveson. Everyone is against us, and lots of things which are supposition are being presented as fact.

No-one speaks in praise of us, but then no-one ever does. It doesn't matter much, because a good tabloid doesn't need friends.

It has readers instead.

Letters to Lillys.

IT'S the weekend so let's dive into the mailbag to see what thoughts The Reader's been having.

First off, stage psychic Sally Morgan turned out not to be so psychic after an audience member overheard her being fed lines by stagehands, something which surprised, er, nobody. Angry said: "A show where you talk to the dead? That's the X-Factor isn't it?" and Kurt said: "I see fucking stupid people."

Then Shadow Culture Secretary Ivan Lewis managed to overshadow Miliminor's conference speech by suggesting journalists be licensed, which was something not a single person thought was a good idea, not even Alan Rusbridger.

Stuart said:

"The more the politicians and others who have been found with their hands in the till, noses in the trough etc scream, the better the job journalists are doing. I don't always agree with every word you write, it would be boring if I did, but 9 times out of 10 what I read of yours is interesting."

Bill added: "If you threw out everyone who had ever been guilty of gross misconduct, particularly after 10pm on a Friday, there wouldn't be anyone left [in Fleet Street]."

Ed: Well, quite.

Carlos Tevez became three times more irritating by refusing to play for the last 15 minutes of a Man City match, leading to this post speculating whether 22 golden Labradors chasing a ball might not be more fun than football.

Darryl said:

"Completely agree, though in his defence he is probably still stripping about not being able to go back to south America to be with his wife and child. Something I believe City did everything to scupper by holding on for more money until the deadline ran out. Still, he should have kept his pride and dignity, and played like a professional instead of acting like a overpaid prima-donna, just like 99% of the footballers these days."

Eric said: ""Outstanding column today Lillys. I'm losing all faith in the game, and today one of our 'role models' is arrested for sexual assault and drug possession. It can't go on."

Ed: And yet it does. 

Then the trial of Conrad Murray over the death of Michael Jackson began, and this post pointed out the case is not so much about getting justice for the death but finding out who will be the target of all the lawsuits from promoters, family and insurance companies.

Alex said: "Brilliant piece that deserves more investigation - the last paragraph is a bit Linda 'Why Won't They Think of the Children' Lee-Potter-ish." And Colin added: "The lawyers are doing just fine. As they always will."

Last weekend Britain marked the 10th anniversary of war in Afghanistan by barely noticing it and this post weighed up the costs and benefits to service personnel, our defence budget and the Afghan population.

Will said:

"I do understand why you're disappointed with a lack of dialogue on the subject of war. Call me a fluffy pacifist, but eventually people have to sit down to talk. Conflict has been around as long as humans, but so has dialogue and solution. Can't help wondering what intelligent life forms watching us from outside would make of it, or generations in future millennia. I have huge respect for human bravery whatever the context but, the military don't have a monopoly. So long as the richest 10% of adults account for 85% of the world total of global assets there’s going to be trouble. Please keep up with your posts."

Then yours truly and a few others had a collective brain-fart over the acquittal of Amanda Knox for murder and this post tried to explain why the Daily Wail's briefly-published online backgrounder was a mistake rather than part of a grand media conspiracy (journalists don't have the patience for conspiracies).

Enid said: "Perfect. You made journalism sound exciting again." Chris devoted a long and detailed post on my Facebook wall to internet caches and who-did-what-when, which I don't have space to repeat and less time to try to understand, but add me as a friend using the link on the right if you're curious to see it.

Nathan wrote: "Interesting what you write about how it all works. I am a big fan of 'human error' being a web-developer myself and continually being asked to 'undo' things. I have a nagging question though - what happened to validating information before committing to screen or paper? I don't mean this accusingly, but am genuinely surprised that your piece seemed to give no real priority to validating facts, the impression I am left with is that 'first' matters - not much else. I used to be in PR and we were great ones for trying to manipulate perceptions, but we were largely held up to account by journalists who were more than weary of taking anything one person/organisation said as being remotely usable."

And Chantelle said:

"I'm the person who first spotted the Daily Mail mistake and posted it to Twitter... As a journalist myself, and one who has written two copies of almost every court story I ever wrote for BBC News, I know full well 'how journalism works'. However, my issue was clearly with the made-up portions of the piece. It's one thing to have something ready, it's another thing to post an invented reaction before the defendant has even had one! Even if they hadn't posted the wrong story, what if Knox had fainted, or screamed, or run out of the courtroom, instead of "looking stunned"? By pressing send the second they heard the word guilty, they were happy to send out something which could be incorrect in a myriad of ways, just to be first. That's why we're portrayed as 'sleazebucket liars in dirty macs'."

Ed: As I say, it was a brain-fart by someone in the Wail office and by a few people on Twitter. The reporter who wrote the article which was wrongly published said he pre-agreed the quotes with the people concerned, it was 'holding copy' meant to be updated before publication, and was furious it was used as was. I believe him. If anything it shows that newspapers need to have the same production values and system of checks on their websites as they do in their print editions, rather than in most cases treating the web as an afterthought entrusted to a handful of less experienced (and cheaper) people.

Jodie Marsh lightened the mood by covering herself in gravy browning and displaying her deep-seated body issues for the world to see. Colin said: "She looks like a Pepparami." Kev added: "Jaysus, that girl is a mess. Her self-esteem is all over the place. I can't judge but agree Jodie needs help. Incidentally who's her agent these days? Clearly they're giving her top, attention/headline grabbing advice."

Neil said:

"Not sure how you've all arrived at the psychological evaluation that Jodie is 'a mess'. Dedicating yourself to a personal goal requires strength. Particularly when that goal is pretty much guaranteed to draw stigma."

And lastly Apple founder Steve Jobs died from the pancreatic cancer he was diagnosed with seven years ago, a remarkable feat considering most patients' prognosis is measured in weeks or months. He was lionised as a loss to humanity so this post pointed out that those sections of humanity which couldn't afford an iThing hadn't really noticed much difference.

Alex said: "But Jobs wasn't in business to combat poverty. Or make pasties. Or play a sport. What he did was all any of us can do; the best we can, using our God-given talents, in our chosen profession. To that end, I'd say the guy did a hell of a job."

Sam said:

"Thank god someone else agrees with me! I woke up this morning, checked Twitter, and saw loads of people going on about how 'Steve Jobs changed the world' and 'Apple made the world a better place'. It's so annoying, as you pointed out they don't stop poverty or illness and only the richest 5 per cent or so of the world can afford any Apple products."

Which is a depressing note to end on, but there we are. Wrap up warm because the weather's turned this week and autumn is upon us. Cold and dry, but at least it's sunny.

Foxy out.

How journalism works, part 74.

JOURNALISM is one of those trades where everyone thinks they know how it works, and most people haven't a clue.

That's why journalists in TV dramas are always sleazebucket liars in grubby macs hounding the recently-bereaved and wilfully printing untruths while never taking the lid off their biro. When doctors, policemen or any other profession is written into a script someone has to check whether you really would use a defibrillator or make an arrest; no-one bothers when it comes to hacks, as everyone reckons they know how Fleet Street works because they've seen it on the telly.

Well, I've seen Bruce Forsyth on the telly and I still don't know how he works. A system of cogs and pulleys, I imagine.

So for the sake of clarity I'm going to explain why several newspaper websites, bloggers and tweeting journalists (myself included) wrongly said Amanda Knox had lost her appeal against her conviction for the murder of Meredith Kercher.

We're human.

And that's about it, I'm afraid. If you want a more detailed explanation I could point out that the verdict was delivered shortly before 9pm, a good while after almost every national newspaper should have gone to print. They each held back their first editions purely to get the news on their front page, a move which costs tens of thousands of pounds an hour because you have to pay printers to hang about and then work late, and overtime for the delivery drivers who then spend hours transporting those papers all over the country so they're in your newsagents' by 6am (an awful lot of work goes into that, so please don't just stand there, read it for free and put it back down with its pages all in a mess). Every daily newspaper editor in Fleet Street was biting their nails waiting for that verdict, every newsroom was tenser than normal which means very, and every hack was staring at the telly willing it to happen faster so they could get on with the job in hand.

When the verdict arrived, those people had mere minutes to get the words on the page, subbed, the picture edited and sent to the printers' where the press was humming. They did not have the luxury to wait for a reporter in the court to file copy and reaction - that would have to wait for later editions. Instead they will all have had two front pages laid out, one with a 'Knox free' and one with a 'Knox jailed' story, probably the same space for a picture to be slotted into and two versions of what a reporter imagined might happen, grasping at the obvious details about people looking stunned and using previously-cleared or uttered quotes from the lawyers. Once the verdict came through, the right version would be subbed while having new copy filed over the phone from the court dropped into it, so there could be fresh, expanded quotes from the legal teams and extra colour from the courtroom.

Both versions of the holding copy are pretty much the same, except for the top six pars. They change more as the minutes tick and the reporter gets more reaction to file from the scene.

But there were two extra dimensions to this story which naffed it up for the hacks. The first is that the verdict was in a foreign language which even the best of us have only enough knowledge of to ask for a copy of the receipt (I can do this in six languages, last time I counted) and the second is Twitter. If you follow the right people news is broken there before anywhere else, giving you a few minutes more to get ahead of your rivals.

And being first is one of the things journalists really care about, because first means more readers, sales, advertising and money to spend on drink at the Christmas party. The Reader doesn't care who's first, but we do because it means our jobs are safe for another week or so. Despite 24-hour rolling news coverage and the internet getting new readers means breaking the news on Twitter, where last night millions of us were ghoulishly waiting for the verdict. 

But journalists, like everyone else, were also watching Twitter and Sky News, which is generally quicker than the Beeb. The Sky translator said: "Amanda Knox is guilty" and all those fingers hovering over the 'send' button on a keyboard clicked as one.

Several newspaper websites including The Groaner, the Daily Wail and The Scum did the same, as well as the Sky news ticker, and their readers hit the retweet button. Within 30 seconds it was quite apparent she was guilty only of defamation and we'd dropped a bollock. Everybody deleted their tweets, made the position clear, and started again. The worst offender was the Wail website where some poor sod has had their arse handed to them in a bag this morning after hitting 'send' on the 'guilty' copy which had been filed earlier that afternoon, again in an effort to be first.

The story, which had barely any quotes in it and those which it did were short and apparently pre-agreed with prosecutors by a reporter on the ground, was online we are told for all of 90 seconds. But that was long enough for someone to get a screengrab and start up a right-on internet frenzy about terrible journalism.

Well, no. It was normal journalism, which you'd never have got to see if someone hadn't been so keen on being first to publish. For once being slow brought rewards because the Beeb got it right and the newsrooms, which will have all started subbing their 'guilty' copy, had the chance to pull it out and put the 'not guilty' version in before the presses ran.

The internet is glorious because it means if you do make a mistake you can claw it back in a way you can't with a printed newspaper. But it also means that even if you're wrong for only a minute and a half an awful lot of people might get to hear about it and you end up trending on Twitter.

The moaning about the Wail story today is nothing to do with a genuine deconstruction of its journalism and just another way for everyone who hates that newspaper to claim they were right. It's as narrow-minded as Nick Griffin waving a copy of the Daily Distress around saying "See? I told you it was all the immigrants' fault!"

It could, in fact, have been any newspaper website which made the same mistake, and just about any journo. I feel for whoever was to blame but hope they take some comfort from the fact that when The Editor is told it sparked a spoof trend on Twitter he won't know what the hell they're on about.

And I'm sure our brief errors won't make a damn bit of difference to either Amanda Knox or Meredith Kercher's family, all of whom were subject to far graver mistakes and bad decisions. Most journos do their best, most of the time, but when we naff it up we tend to get it in the neck more than, say, Italian forensic investigators. Ninety seconds doesn't really compare to four years, now does it?

I do have a grubby mac as it happens, but only because I drop crumbs on my keyboard.

License to grill.

IT IS to be expected that in a year which has involved Ryan Giggs, superinjunctions and a phone-hacking scandal some politician would get up on his hindlegs and blame everything on an unfettered Press.

Journalists always get the blame when they catch someone out, not least by the person who was caught. Ho-hum and fiddle-de-dee.

Already this year there's been calls for privacy laws, largely made by people who want publicity when they feel like it and secrecy when they don't. And today Shadow Culture Secretary Ivan Lewis - himself exposed by tabloids for pestering a young female aide with inappropriate texts - will tell the Labour Party Conference he wants to see licensing for journalists, with a system of "being struck off" if they're guilty of gross misconduct so they'll never work again.

Except - who's in control? Whether it's a privacy law or licensing, someone has to administer it. Someone who can draw a line in the sand which every single person in the country would agree with.

Politicians? Ooh, no thanks. We'd never know about MPs' expenses if we did that. I haven't forgotten, although they have, how many MPs excoriated the Daily Wellygraph for paying £75,000 for stolen data, criticised the 'intrusion' and urged the then-Speaker of the House of Commons to pursue court action and injunctions to plug the leak. We also wouldn't know about a dodgy dossier which took our country to war in Iraq on a lie, a Home Secretary's attempts to prosecute an Opposition MP for publicising a damaging leak about her own department, Jeffrey Archer's perjury and a million and one other stories. If a politician decided who could write the news we'd end up with a Government press release to read over our cornflakes every morning.

Judges? They'd stick to the law, surely, and be impartial. Except in the case of celebrities, privacy, superinjunctions, and stories about other judges. Lawyers are over-cautious to the nth degree and tend to err on the side of 'never publish something that someone somewhere might not like and might, with a squint and a following wind and not looking at the evidence be a little bit ripe for an old man who doesn't watch the X Factor to understand'. If a judge censored our news today's editions would be tied up in legal fannying-about until some point after Christmas and would look something like this:

Or how about the media itself? People like me with a vested interest in sticking our noses in everywhere, willy-nilly. No, probably not a good idea for us to be in sole charge either. The police could enforce censorship I suppose, but there's a few nations trying that already and I don't much fancy newspapers like they have in Saudi Arabia.

Perhaps we could ask the public? Very democratic. Except we don't want Mrs Miggins at no74 to have a say, she's a dreadful racist. And that bloke across the way, the one with the loud music and all the girlfriends, he can't be relied on. No it will have to be the bits of the public that are well-behaved, polite, dress the right way, shop in the right places, think the same way as... oh. Not so many of them, are there? And let's not forget the public voted for Hitler, the public buy Coldplay records. They cannot always be trusted.

And how do we define gross misconduct? Having to make a payment, or an apology, or being found to break the Code of Conduct? I know of dozens of stories where newspapers have paid to settle-out-of-court because it's cheaper than fighting it and budgets are tight. I've had to write apologies to someone I know, but just cannot prove, to be guilty and most hacks have fallen foul of the code at some point by genuine mistake. Some of the reporter's tricks I think are right or wrong others disagree with; one hack's gross misconduct is another's prize-winning scoop. And heaven forfend we have to start licensing every blogger who calls themselves a journalist.

When  it comes to controlling the Press there are problems with every option, flaws so bad it makes you raise your eyebrows and whistle through your teeth once you think it through. What Mr Lewis and everyone else who bangs on about Press regulation has forgotten is that we already have it.

The courts and politicians already influence what we can report. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, Contempt of Court Act 1981, defamation laws, and a few words about privacy in the European Convention on Human Rights among other statutes constrict and confine the Press pretty well. The rules get pushed and tested and sometimes broken or changed; those that overstep the mark, quite rightly, get hauled before the beak to explain why and can be fined or jailed if they don't have a good reason.

The public already have a say. Up to 20million people read a tabloid newspaper every day, and millions more read our websites. If they don't like what we do they vote with their feet and their wallets, and we have to try harder. There are many reasons why the Screws of the World closed down but by far the most important is that it had lost the trust of its readers.

Last but not least there's self-regulation. The Press Complaints Commission could do with a few more teeth but editors take turns to sit on it and judge each other. There's not much room for favouritism. By far the strongest part of the system is that Fleet Street is a meritocracy - if you fail too many times you're out on your ear. If you get a reputation for costing your newspaper thousands in libel payouts you won't get another job easily. If you mire your newspaper in scandal The Editor will not look on you kindly, unless you're called Johann Hari and we've yet to see if his career survives long-term.

I do not want any one of those people to have a say in what I am able to report on or read. I want ALL of them to have a say.

It is far better to have a long, never-ending argument between everyone - a constant tug-of-war keeping the Press, politics and lawyers in check as the public throw their weight behind one or the other, forcing them all to compromise and find a way to muddle along.

It's not a perfect system, doesn't always work as it should, but what we've got right now is the best anyone's managed to come up with. Like democracy, or the Royal Family - there's plenty of flaws and fruitloops but in the end it usually evens out.

No-one's needed a licence to be a journalist in the 300 years since the first paper was printed in Fleet Street. You just have to be nosy and a little bit mad, the kind of person no-one else wants in their club. That's why politicians, judges and the public don't like us, and it's the reason why our Press with all its defects is still free.

Licences for journalists? 

What next, an exam to be Prime Minister?

Letters to Lillys.

WHAT with holidays and other hoo-hahs it's been a while since our last delve into the mailbag, so let's put on our goggles and rubber gloves to see what we've got.

(I know of Fleet Street agony aunts who open their post in just such a way. I see no reason to throw caution to the winds).

First up is this piece about the early release, two-thirds of the way through his sentence, of the man who watched Baby P abused and killed by his stepfather. Some of the newspapers got their knickers in a twist about him being freed, but failed to take Justice Secretary Ken Clarke to task.

Tom said: "You've got to let him out at some point." Richard added: "Great, let's move him in next door to you then." Max said: "Meanwhile Manchester's courts have locked up a fifty-year-old alcoholic for looting a box of Krispy Kreme during a riot. The system really does value property over people."

And Nik pointed out:

"Ken didn't have anything to do with the justice system when Jason Owen was arrested, tried, convicted or sentenced... that was Jacqui Smith. Let's have the right people held accountable..."

Ed: Ken is the one in charge now, so he's the one to ask about it. Otherwise we'd be asking every previous cabinet minister back to the year dot.

Then snoresheet columnist Johann Hari was given a slap over the wrist for making up quotes, misleading his Editor and his readers, and dragging the reputation of his newspaper through the mud, but rather than being sacked was sent to New York for three months. This offer to retrain him the foxy way drew 100 per cent approval.

Justin said: "Bravo!" Rachel added: "Bravo indeed!" And Enid said: "That's just the half of it, Lillys. But I'm afraid he just doesn't get it."

Jill added:

"Brilliant - spot on. And he didn't just set up a fake identity, but he stole the real identity of another (real) journalist to make vile attacks on people he didn't agree with or failed to see he was a living legend. It drove me nuts that so many seemed to think it was an issue of right and left, when it was all about right and wrong, no more, no less. Don't understand at all how he can still be in a job. He'll never have any credibility again."

Tim said: "What bugs me is that there is apparently nothing any of us can do about it - it turns out, as usual, that however badly caught out you get, if you have the brass neck to just ignore everybody you get away with it."

This post about the International Space Station and things to feel positive about on Mondays went down well with Mark, who said: "I do so like your positive blogs. That's not being sarcastic, I really do."

Paul said:

"I very much like your take on the benefits of research and development. I would have so in favour of funding and building the Large Hadron Collider out of a small portion of the bank bailouts and then enjoying the employment, expertise and brand-spanking-new physics leading to patents leading to innovation leading to future revenue all owned by the UK...That would be a way out of our recession. We could be the Hong Kong of Europe, an offshore island of free thinking hard working people not bound by European nonsense."

Martin added:

"You are right about the fact that those innovations might have come about eventually, but having that cutting-edge science, primes the universities and encourages people to take up science and engineering. Just look at how our nation has declined from the one that created Concorde (most engineers will tell you that Concorde was as technically challenging as going to the Moon was) and the jet engine to one now that bales out half-witted mongs who lose our money and then rewards them with a bonus. We are one of the biggest designers and manufacturers of satellites in the world, yet this successful industry is ignored. We give billions to bankers, perhaps we should be giving money to people who make things instead?"

Then ex-minister Elliot Morley became the latest expenses-fiddling MP to be let out a quarter of the way through his sentence and this post compared it to the 2010 Tory manifesto which had promised with a straight face to "clean up Westminster".

Manfred said: "'Tis the rich wot gets the pleasure, tis the poor wot gets the blame."

But Guy pointed out:

"The rules are being followed just as for anyone else. Sentencing is chemin-de-fer. It's just you don't know the rules, only the most egregious cases normally being newsworthy. 'Prison time' means the nominal sentence not the time that will be served in prison. Almost none of them has a previous conviction. All plead guilty and all will have made appropriate protestations of remorse. This is weighed and counted and determines the sentence. A judge if he strays from the guidelines has to produce a solid, clear, allowable reason, if he isn't just going to waste the public's money (many many thousands) getting appealed. Early release likewise is subject to rigid rules, which you have either to be unusually stupid, a maniac, or honestly believe yourself to be innocent and say so, to fall foul of."

Ed: I'm fairly certain none of them has expressed any remorse, and in fact they all spent thousands in legal aid arguing the criminal justice system had no jurisdiction over them. They changed their tune when the same system gave them early parole.

The most popular post by far this week was about Tory minister and millionaire Jonathan Djanogly's.

Rachael said: "That cunning stunt should be in jail." Sam asked: "Will this actually get through though? Will other MPs not see this and do their best to avoid being linked to it in any way? Much like that awful woman Dorries. If only writing to my MP and asking her to fight this had any point whatsoever."

Stuart wrote:

"Jonathan Djanogly is just another example of politicians who are totally disconnected from reality. Multi-millionaires who will never have to worry about money have no concept of the hardships they inflect on the 'average' person with their ongoing stupidity. Let's have a campaign to say that no politician can serve more than two terms in central government whether that's the Commons or the Lords. Once that's done they're banned from public office forever."

And Chris took the time to write a highly personal email which he has kindly agreed can be reproduced in full, with a few changes to prevent him being identified.

"I was an abused husband. In a strange situation: I was a war veteran. I had been raised that one should never lift a hand to a woman, no matter what. The abuse began with verbal insults. Over a short period of months it elevated to being hit with wooden rolling pins about the head because of temper tantrums and my cheek being gouged with surgical tweezers used in a downward stabbing motion; the cause of which I cannot recall. I was between a rock and a hard place. Here was I, a well-built man and a veteran exercising supreme self-control not to allow my self-defence instincts to rule me and hit back. Yet I was looked on by my colleagues as some form of mewling puff (as one chap called me). When I eventually complained to the police they detained me claiming that I had caused injuries to her. Admittedly I had, by scraping the skin off her knuckles where she had repeatedly punched me in the head until I turned around and shoved her onto the floor. I then had to wait seven months until the police dropped the charges with no apology or explanation forthcoming. I appreciate your article, particularly the tone of exasperation. Keep up the good work. Some of us out here are counting on your voice. Admittedly adding to it with my own, less conspicuous, voice. Thank you."

Which is a rather humbling way to sign off. Thank you to Chris for letting me pass his story on to you.

Have a good weekend everyone - we're due a last burst of summer next week.

Foxy out.

You're Hari a laugh.

THE WORST journalists are the ones who don't get it.

The ones who shrug when they hear a contact has had their life threatened after they printed a lie; the ones who think because they survived one screw-up they'll survive the next one; the ones who think power equates with being bullet-proof.

Despite common belief, such journalists are rare. It's exactly the same as in any other industry where there is always one person in your office whose lack of general human decency makes them stick out. In a newsroom the remaining 99% of the staff might be sociopaths but they generally know roughly what morals look like, not least because otherwise we could not do our jobs.

If you don't know right from wrong yourself it's impossible to interview someone with empathy, hard to get the right quote, difficult to see past your own ego to the story and the people in it. If every journalist were like the caricature many people believe us to be we wouldn't be able to spot human interest, much less feel it, and newspapers would not have sold millions of copies for 300 years.

If nothing else a sense of survival keeps you roughly on the straight and narrow. If you make up stories other journos who are made to look bad as a result will stitch you up every chance they get, if you don't stand your round you never get one bought and if most hacks had done what Johann Hari did they would be down the Job Centre quicker than you can say "gross misconduct".

For those as don't know, Johann is the star columnist of a snoresheet which I have not been bored enough to read since I was last in a dentist's. He made reference to polishing quotes in his interviews and a tabloid hack called Brian Whelan did some digging and found that Johann had fabricated entire slabs of interviews, repeatedly, for years. He used quotes his subjects had said or written previously along with heartfelt details about how they were looking deep into his eyes while they said it.

It's not phone-hacking Milly Dowler, but it's still not on. It's a lie, his subjects didn't know about it, and what's more he used such pieces to win a prestigious award for political journalism with a £3,000 pot and a judging panel who, presumably, were unable to use Google.

He was subsequently found to have set up a fake internet identity to discredit critics, accuse other journalists of alcoholism and anti-Semitism, and act as an unofficial Hari cheerleader. I have got drunk with and greatly respect two of his victims, former New Statesman deputy editor Cristina Odone and Observer writer Nick Cohen, who are both fine journos. It was all pretty vicious and - just as with that guy in your office - his behaviour showed more about his own insecurities and character than it did his industry.

He was suspended for two months, was subject to an internal inquiry, has returned his prize (but not the cash) and issued a public apology for most, but not all, of his behaviour.

But he still doesn't get it. And here's why.

Johann Hari disgraced himself and tainted his profession just like Andy Coulson, through hubris and stupidity. He thought he could do whatever he liked because he was Johann Hari, with a big picture byline.

He says he was "wrong and stupid". No mate, you were crap at your job, nasty when you were found out, and you just didn't care. You were incapable of drawing the right quote out of your subject, unable to see beyond your own prejudices to report fairly and accurately, and more importantly did not manage to put your monstrous ego to one side and see that you were in the wrong. And you have apologised now only because you must.

It's not all Hari's fault. He was recruited straight from university without ever studying law, shorthand, government or anything else I had to sit an exam in. He never had to chat his way across a doorstep, deal with someone threatening suicide or waving a gun, or realised long-term contacts have to like and trust you. He never learned a bit of humility or that everything you write has consequences somewhere.

That's because big-name writers who bring in readers get a little leeway from The Editor. Jeremy Clarkson can be almost as rude as he likes, Su Carroll can pick her own subjects, Richard Littlejohn can write 2,000 words in iambic pentameter if he chooses. But they're still supposed to have a basic grasp of the main rules of their trade and the first and most important of which is: NEVER BECOME THE STORY.

Hari failed on all counts. He's a bad journalist earning a huge salary on a struggling newspaper with tight budgets that can barely afford proper news coverage, staffed by people trying their hardest and each of whom, had they brought their newspaper into the disrepute he has, would have been sacked.
Yet he's not only still in a job, he's on a five-month holiday two months of which were paid, and is "retraining" at Columbia University in the US. How can you retrain someone who was never trained in the first place?

Well, in the certain expectation I will never be asked to do it, I hereby offer to train Johann Hari. If he wants to spend three months with me rather than attending seminars on the free press in Somalia I'll not charge him a penny. I will teach him shorthand, lecture him on the Contempt of Court Act 1981 and Sexual Offences (Amendment) Act 1976, grill him on local government, the council tax system, the defences against defamation and how to win a drinking contest.

I'll send him out on deathknocks, pack jobs, magistrates' hearings, junkie inquests, tell him to drive 300 miles on a hopeless tip at 10pm then insist he's back at work for 7am, make him spend his birthday at a late-night local council planning committee, publish his phone number and paint his name on the side of his car so everyone knows who he is. I'll show him what to do when someone comes at him with a lump of wood or collapses in tears, and how to file off a notebook down a bad line while you're being shot at to someone who's drunk.

It's not perfect and I could probably think of some more stuff but that seems to me like a syllabus which will teach him to care about his trade, the people in it and those he writes about. That, or it puts you off for life.

He probably wouldn't last an afternoon.

He hasn't even got his pen out.

More pictures like this, please.

ANOTHER A-level results day, another slew of pictures of photogenic young girls in not many summer clothes jumping around looking happy.

You don't see the ones who didn't get the grades they wanted. Tearful teens are in newspapers only when there's a school killing spree, generally. You also don't see the fat girls, the speccy ones, or the plain ones, who may be celebrating just as much but a picture of whom won't sell a single newspaper.

You don't see teenage boys either, although you can smell them a mile away: either they don't wash at all or drown themselves in Lynx. Spotty oiks don't take much of a picture, and anyway girls get better exam results. They also express emotion in photographs and boys, with the best will in the world, just don't.

It all adds up to a lot of well-intentioned people grumbling about sexist and slightly-pervy newspapers - tabloid and snoresheet - photographing barely-legal young women.

How dreadful of us. How appalling that millions of extra people will look at our websites today and buy the papers tomorrow to see those same pictures, keeping our struggling businesses afloat while telling themselves how bad it is that they are being forced to look at pretty girls in tiny shorts and my, what long hair they have!

But to be frank, it doesn't matter a damn.

Firstly because A-levels are like popularity - important when you're 18, and for the rest of your life you couldn't care less. And secondly because the sight of a happy teenage girl with a whole life of possibilities in front of her is one of the most magical things you'll ever see.

There aren't many countries where that happens. Europe, North America, Australasia, Japan. Those girls you'll see in the pictures are smiling because they can be anything they want to be. The right exam result means you can get into the right university, get the right degree, land a dream job.

In India if you're a girl you're lucky to survive to 18. In most of Africa school is an expensive luxury that comes a long way down a parent's list. In China a girl will probably be aborted if her parents can afford it, and dumped after she is born if they can't. In fact, while we're busy bewailing pictures of successful young kids in the newspapers covering our tiny, self-important part of the planet, there are 100million women in the rest of the world who have simply disappeared.

Let me say that again, because you skimmed over it a little quickly. One hundred million. The equivalent, if you're into comparisons, of the Holocaust sixteen times over. Or 66,000 Titanics sinking. Remember the Norway massacre a few weeks ago? Sixty-nine young people slaughtered. Well, imagine that happening every day for 3,835 years. Yeah. That many.

Boys outnumber girls, very slightly, when they're born. If they get a good diet and are lucky enough to live in a wealthy country like yours and mine - you're among the 30 per cent of the world with the internet, so you're ahead of the game - women will outlive men, for simple biological reasons. They are more resistant to disease, deal better with the sniffles, and are generally nails.

Except there are many parts of the world where males significantly outnumber women. These are in the parts where diet and disease would, naturally, mean things should be the other way around. But in Asia, the Middle East, Africa, girls who should have been born are missing. In these places they are more likely to die at every stage of their lives; they are more likely to be aborted, abandoned, to be denied medical care, to be abused, neglected, beaten and murdered.

In China alone there are 50million women who ought to be there, but just aren't.

Even if they survive in most of the world girls are seen as less deserving of education, first aid, gynaecology, property, a driving licence, or the protection of the law. And before you stop and think how glad you are your country isn't like that, here in the UK and in most of the developed world women are less likely to earn the same as men for the same job, to be elected to Parliament or to become CEO of a company. If one of us is raped, a jury will be asked to consider whether we were "asking for it". In Britain there are 1.05m women on the dole, the highest for 25 years, because the recession is hitting them harder than men - women are more likely to work in the public sector which is being cut, more likely to work part-time, and are generally seen as more expendable by bosses.

It's not quite as bad as the Congo, of course, but all our science and technology hasn't moved us quite as far as it could. And imagine what we could do in the Congo, if only it had oil.

So, do you know what? Shake your head ruefully at the exam results photos, at the fact those kids don't realise this is the thinnest and most carefree they'll ever be, that they feel so positive and thrilled about a life which is going to kick them in the chops every chance it gets. But don't get het up about pictures of young girls who are happy, who by and large and with a following wind will be able to have long and fulfilled lives in which they can do (almost) whatever they want.

Just be angry there aren't more of them.

This is ACECAKES.

A foxy code of conduct.

NO-ONE taught me about journalistic ethics.

I had to pass tests in law and public affairs, understand how government was organised, get 100 words a minute shorthand and have my story-writing and interviewing skills tested by seasoned old hacks.

In all, I had to sit and pass seven exams in order to get a trade qualification known as the NCE, but not once did I have to prove that I knew what my moral responsibilities were.

Those were formed by colleagues and editors at a dozen different publications over the years, most of whom were good and some of whom were bad, and my own experiences of getting in trouble and trying to avoid repeating my mistakes.

Each employer insisted I sign up to the Press Complaints Commission Code of Practice, something which is fairly thorough and complete and, if you stick to it, does its job pretty well. It's a source of pride that I have never been found to have broken any of its rules.

The problems come when people do break them - sometimes accidentally, other times legitimately, and occasionally without caring. The PCC, as good as it can be, has limited powers to punish bad journalists or make sure the slapdash try harder next time.

It plainly needs an overhaul, a rethink, and the teeth it needs to be a watchdog even the unscrupulous are scared of.

We also have the laws of defamation, contempt, BLOODY Article 8 of the Human Rights Act and various other bits of law which should keep the Press, while not in thrall, at least on the leash. We don't need any more legislation.

But in the meantime, eight million people buy a tabloid newspaper every day in the UK. Each is read by between two and four people, depending on the paper and the day of the week. That means roughly 20million people - a third of the population - read what we write, or at least look at the pictures. And some of them don't trust what they see.

The BBC, love it or loathe it, is the only journalistic organisation in the UK to have its own code of ethics. It's long and boring and I recommend not reading it, but how long will it be until every newspaper and TV station - come to that, every police force - feels the need to make its principles part of its brand?

Not long, I think. Those that abide by the PCC, Ofcom and other regulators will want to distance themselves from the bad eggs whose stink is permeating not just my trade but other professions too. Not least because if we don't set ourselves new standards someone else will do it for us. I don't want a media which is told what to do by politicians, or the courts, or Hugh flippin' Grant. Over my dead body.

But I also don't want one which isn't trusted. So for the avoidance of doubt, here is my personal code of conduct which you can hold me to, if you wish:

• I will never lie
• I will always respect The Reader
• I cannot be bought (although the phone app can, only 69p, see tab above, also mugs and t-shirts)
• I will always be polite
• I will stand my round even if I can't get a receipt
• I will use subterfuge only if there is no other way 
• I will always ask why
• I will neither corrupt nor be corrupted
• I will not break the law unless I think the story is worth the punishment
• I will never spell it any way but "all right"
• I will always protect my sources and my trade
• I will accept the consequences of my actions

Of course, there's no formal organisation for you to take a complaint to if you feel I've crossed the line; but you can quote me. And a journo without readers is no journo at all.

"Well, Dishface, I'm fairly certain this isn't ethical behaviour. And could you tell Rex to knob off?"