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Yes, yes, yes!

A spankingly good idea.

4 thoughts on “Yes, yes, yes!”

  1. Christ yes and same for New Labour polticians .The Telegraph seems to feel you breed writers like ponies and they are all the same

    ( Although I like Bryony Gordon you leave her alone )

  2. I suppose there would be a certain number of children of the famous anyway as there is among more meritocratic pursuits (footballers for example), but in general if someone is young, has no particular area of expertise yet has been promoted straight to a columnist or diarist then nepotism is usually involved.

  3. The problem with today’s young people is that there are too many “unis” offering “degrees in journalism”. it encourages them to want to be _ON television_ and _IN the media_ . I am clueless as to why, having worked many years ago in what was then called “public relations and lobbying”.

    Perhpas the In-Room-Wireless Tele Vision Projector is to blame. It fosters a delusion of personal grandeur and importance.

    As to Bryony Gordon: she is fairly shaggable, she does not think too deeply as shown by her persistently frequent writings, looks nice, has a nice smile and very probably quite pretty boobs (I have to admit that I do not know about those) and could be turned into a liberal. She is as unlike the disgustingly repellent Polly Toynbee (who probably smells) as you could ever hope an English female journalist to be, since Rowan Pelling has become prissy and hectoring in her dotage.

    And she does not look like Madeleine Bunting either.

  4. On the other hand, the fact that someone is related to someone else does not necessarily vitiate their opinion. To assume otherwise would be remarkably repellent. Tom Utley is a fine columnist. T. E. (Peter) Utley was a fine journalist. Alan Coren: seriously funny man while still being a razor-sharp commentator. Giles Coren: diamond geezer. John Junor, Penny Junor, Sam Leith: that’s three generations. That may be evidence for the defence or prosecution; I decline to take sides. But any endeavour such as this, no matter how high-minded it may begin, runs the risk of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. There might be some vestigial benefit in knowing this sort of thing, but it all rather smacks of the Mandy Rice-Davies effect: one can all too easily dismiss someone’s opinion with a glib, “well he would say that, wouldn’t he?”

    Besides, it’s hopelessly parochial. You don’t need to be a regular at Annie’s Bar to know that Mr. Jackie Ashley, jug-eared twat Andrew Marr, stuffed one up Alice Miles and sired a bastard off her. I live eight thousand km away from London and I know that. What web of cross-pollinating stories stems from that little liaison?

    Any really serious examination of the relationships in British journalism would necessarily include data like this, at which point it would descend into the sort of furious wanking that would have you on an IV drip within three days. No-one gives a fuck, except the most appalling obsessives (like us).

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