Confessions of a Broadsheet addict

50June 2015

H Broadsheet.ie! Where did you

come from and why do I ﬂit to you so

reﬂexively? Why are the newspa-

pers, which you for some reason call “De

Newspapers”, suddenly so full of you?

You are George Orwell for our Irish age.

No concern needed, these post-modern

days, to secure the “hearing” that moti-

vated him: with digital journalism

immortalising our inglorious musings, we

are all indeed much, and long, heard.

And I don’t just mean the narcissism of a

blog or under-followed Twitter account.

For now we have the power without respon-

sibility that is the interactive and

anonymous “news source for the bewil-

dered”. “Everything. As it happens”.

Though not so much usually. And yet you

showed spine against Ireland’s biggest

bully.

Contradictory ‘Broadsheet’, refuge of the

oﬃce drone, dog-wagger of oﬃcial Ireland,

purgatory of the arts gradu-

ate, icon for the libertarian,

past-rejecting Y-generation.

You never quite know when to

just keep schtum. You wear

your liberalism like an old

scout’s badge, while an army

of unpaid volunteers (me

included) chomp and choke on

a tsunami of sub-journalistic

tidbits. Gay-cake debacle

anyone? A cat that looks like

Ireland?

Broadsheet marches to the

beat of twitterdom and twit-

terdee. It vituperates the Iona

Institute and all its progeny and smirks at

our ante-diluvian institutions and their

machinations. It celebrates little politically

though it loves High Design and it cannot

get enough gay rights and the campaigns

they spawn.

Almost whimsically and perhaps in

closet guilt at the apparent libertarianism

of its no doubt mostly junior advertising

exec readership (it promotes, nay ogles,

Julien Mercille, conspiracy theorist

extraordinaire, Maître Mitty on a Monday.

Worse still – and alien to the “get that state

out of my life readership, this is a leftie.

“Beef cake”, ” boﬃn”, “egghead”, “the man

they all want to marry”: all bouﬀant hair

and sallow skin, his clean-cut just-bathed

Canadian earnestness, an embodiment of

dissent for Broadsheet’s hirsute, lycra-clad,

hashtag revolutionaries. Julienne, You

tease us with your threat of taser-ﬂashing

Gardaí; whip us into a frenzy with your

regurgitation of pertinent surveys, poke us

with your boring quotes from the eminent

King and Thoreau. I applaud your refusal to

succumb to what you describe as the

media’s “propaganda of silence”, as you

buzz around, ﬂogging your book on every

show in town. May I be so bold as to suggest

you partake in the donning of a trench

coat, a suitable accoutrement, a worthy

homage to your mots

Noms de Plume such as “FluﬀyBiscuits”,

“Spaghetti Hoops” and “Bodger”: words

synonymous with childhood innocence, a

Freudian nod perhaps to the infantilism of

Broadsheet, where ‘Animal

Farm’ meets Old McDonald

and Broadsheet ends up con-

fusing our furry friends with

the Irish electorate? What

would Village make of a cat

named after that notoriously

unreliable chronicler, Hero-

dotus, recently to be found on

Broadsheet, purring at us (as

Gaeilge, no less) mere humans

to vote (Yes)? To meet the

standards imposed by Broad-

sheet editorially, the poster

requires just a talent to irri-

tate the commenter merely

the ability to circumnavigate a crude ﬁlter.

Though there are suspicions that one John

Ryan posts under more than one Nom and

some of the commenters seem suspiciously

on-message.

Even Village, doctrinaire as it is, deigns

to allow dissenters: John Waters and Ruth

Cullen. Constantin Gurdgiev with his Beck-

ettian opaqueness. But Broadsheet only

posts counter-liberal perspectives in a way

that invites attack. Despite its name, sug-

gestive of an open platform, where

anything goes, Broadsheet and its com-

mentariat are – dare I say it – profoundly

Catholic in tone, devoutly intolerant of any

counterweight to the individualistic, hip-

ster agenda. Its commenters and posters

drown in a pool of contradictions, one

minute decrying “Je suis Charlie”, the next

putting the boot into “Ich bin Hitler” mer-

chants. And what’s going on with over 

posts about the Fuehrer?

Broadsheet’s approach confuses editorial

restraint with neutrality and balanced cri-

tique with trolling; hysterically accusing

those who challenge the bluﬀ of its resident

in-“journalists”, of risible blueshirtisms.

Perhaps Broadsheet should pay some heed

(on this and only this) to the bluster of

Julien Mercille who in his attempt at adult

analysis, opines worthily though uninter-

estingly that “democracy is a full time job

and much remains to be accomplished”.

I challenge the chalet-girl spirit of Broad-

sheet, but can concede Broadsheet, being

all things to all modern men, is not without

its merits, though perhaps the sheet is nar-

rower than it thinks.

Lost, Broadsheet be thy carriage oﬃce.

Public order oﬀence, Broadsheet be thy

kangaroo court. Gay, Broadsheet be thy

brave champion. Spill thy guts, Broadsheet

be thy diary. Gossipmonger, iconoclast,

purveyor of transcripts, bolsterer of the

hipster status quo. Bully, dogmatist, mate-

rialist. Never entirely unintelligent though

hardly wise. Know thyself.

Why Broadsheet thou art indeed the

entertaining slutty un-grown-up child of

thy paper predecessors.

Redemption ows from thy every post. •

Hymn to the online publisher. By Jane Tuohy

Confessions of a

Broadsheet addict

MEDIA Broadsheet

Why Broadsheet

thou art indeed

the entertaining

slutty un-

grown-up child

of thy paper

predecessors

“

June 2015 51