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twoconstraints and

influences on journalists

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CONSTRAINTS AND INFLUENCES ON JOURNALISTS 17

Constraints

Journalism is not produced in a vacuum. Journalistswork within a range of constraints and influences;structural factors that affect their output (McQuail,2000: 244). Media theorists argue that journalists“have to make decisions at the centre of a field ofdifferent constraints, demands or attempted uses ofpower or influence” (McQuail, 2000: 249). These rangefrom legal constraints and regulatory codes of practiceto the less visible influence of proprietors, organisa-

tional routines, market forces,cultural bias, patriotism, profes-sional ethos, and a gender, racialor class imbalance in theworkforce. Further constraints –time, sources, subjectivity,audience, style, advertisers – are

addressed in David Randall’s suggestion that everynewspaper might consider publishing the followingdisclaimer:

This paper, and the hundreds of thousands of words itcontains, has been produced in about 15 hours by agroup of fallible human beings, working out of crampedoffices while trying to find out about what happened inthe world from people who are sometimes reluctant totell us and, at other times, positively obstructive. Itscontent has been determined by a series of subjectivejudgements made by reporters and executives,tempered by what they know to be the editor’s, owner’sand reader’s prejudices. Some stories appear herewithout essential context as this would make them lessdramatic or coherent and some of the languageemployed has been deliberately chosen for itsemotional impact, rather than its accuracy. Somefeatures are printed solely to attract certain advertisers.(Randall, 2000: 21)

Journalists work in a field of conflicting loyalties, allof which have the potential to influence their work.They may feel a sense of duty towards their audience,editors, advertisers, proprietors, the law, regulatory

Advertising; Audience; Codes of conduct; Constraints; Free press; Legislation; Ownership; Propaganda; Pseudo-

events; Public relations; Regulation; Routines; Self-censorship; Self-regulation; Social composition; Socialisation

key terms

It was a Saturday afternoon and AnnaPolitkovskaya had taken a break from hercomputer keyboard to go shopping for groceries.On her return she took a couple of bags up to herseventh-floor flat, then went back down to collectthe others from her car. It was her final journeybecause, as the lift doors opened at the groundfloor, Anna Politkovskaya was shot dead. She maynot have been working on the afternoon ofOctober 7 2006, but few doubt that it was herwork that prompted someone to kill her – orto order her death. She was a journalist.

Anna Politkovskaya worked for therelatively small circulation Russiannewspaper Novaya Gazeta and her reportsabout war, terrorism and their attendanthuman rights abuses had earned her countlessdeath threats. Her journalism also won her praisefrom supporters of democracy and free speecharound the world, although she was something ofa marginal figure in her own country and wasvirtually never invited to appear on television,from which most Russians get their news (Parfitt,2006). Her death was shocking yet in many waysunsurprising; she was one of an estimated 20Russian journalists to have been killed or to havedied in suspicious circumstances since 2000(Osborn, 2007).And she was aware of the dangersof making powerful enemies by her courageousreporting, as her sister Elena Kudimova laterrecalled:

Anna knew the risks only too well.We all begged her tostop. We begged. My parents. Her editors. Herchildren. But she always answered the same way: “Howcould I live with myself if I didn’t write the truth?”(Quoted in Specter, 2007)

‘How could I live withmyself if I didn’t write thetruth?’– Anna Politkovskaya.


PRACTICE PRINCIPLES

The Moscow Union of Journalists immediatelycondemned the murder of Anna Politkovskaya as“a new attack on democracy, freedom of speechand openness in Russia”, and Alexei Simonov ofthe Glasnost Defence Foundation warned: “Theresult of Anna’s death is simple. Every journalistwill now practise self-censorship: think twice,before you write” (Quoted in Parfitt, 2006). Suchthings do not happen only in faraway countries.Ten years earlier the Sunday Independent’s crimereporter Veronica Guerin had been shot dead inDublin; more recently, within the jurisdiction ofthe UK, Sunday World journalist Martin O’Haganwas shot dead outside his Lurgan home in 2001.And in 2007 the editor of the AndersonstownNews in Belfast was the subject of a message fromthe “Red Hand Defenders” sent to UlsterTelevision, containing his name, address, car regis-tration number, a threat to kill him – and a bullet(Journalist, 2007a).

Killings, attacks, and threats are the most brutalexamples of constraints on the work of journalistsand, as Simonov points out, their effects can bepervasive. For every journalist killed, and for everydozen threatened, there may be hundreds or eventhousands of journalists who – consciously orotherwise – are more likely to stick to safer storiesas a consequence. This is what is meant by thephrase self-censorship.

More visible forms of censorship and constraintinclude the prosecution and jailing of journalists, thedeportation of troublesome foreign correspondents,the banning of particular outlets, police raids on TVstudios and newspaper offices, and the confiscation ofequipment. All these things still go on in variouscountries around the world towards the end of thefirst decade of the 21st century, as journalists andtheir fellow citizens insist on what the English poetJohnMilton demandedmore than 350 years ago:“theliberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely accordingto conscience” (Milton, [1644] 2005: 101).

In fact, the world is becoming an increasinglydangerous place for journalists, and every year the

bodies, contacts, colleagues, fellow citizens, and tothemselves and their families (Frost, 2000: 61–64;Harcup, 2002b: 103). Denis McQuail highlights “thetension arising from the following oppositions at theheart of media-making”:

• constraint versus autonomy• routine production versus creativity• commerce versus art• profit versus social purpose (McQuail, 2000: 246).

In Chapter 1 we heard the argument that a freepress (social purpose) is impossible in a free market,because market forces (profit) work against the objec-tive of supplying the public sphere with a reasoneddiscourse. But market forces are not the onlypressures at work: “[The] relations between mediaorganisations and their operating environment aregoverned not solely by naked market forces or politicalpower but also by unwritten social and cultural guide-lines” (McQuail, 2000: 249). Even when analysedsolely in economic terms, it has been pointed out thatalthough media organisations will “naturally gravitatetowards oligopoly and monopoly market structures”, ifunchecked this process may have a negative impacton the journalistic product which could hit sales andadvertising income (Doyle, 2002: 125–126).The constraints and influences discussed in this

chapter need to be understood not as totalisingsystems imposing on journalists certain ways of doingthings; rather, they are a range of sometimes conflict-ing influences, some more powerful than others andsome more powerful at certain times, with a tendencyto influence journalists in certain ways. Constraints onjournalists are subject to counter-pressures and canbe negotiated and resisted as well as accepted.

Proprietors

Ultimately it is the owners who, “through their wealth,determine the style of journalism we get,” argues MichaelFoley (2000: 51). Media proprietors set the broad lines ofpolicy for their organisations, and the combination of verti-cal and horizontal integration (synergy) may increasepressures on journalists to cross-promote other productsor to keep their noses out of their company’s business.The situation in public service broadcasting is morecomplex than in commercial media, with bureaucratic and

JOURNALISM: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE18


International Federation of Journalists (IFJ) producesa grim list of every journalist and media workerkilled in the course of their work. The highestnumber of deaths in a single year was 177 in 2006,but 2007 was almost as deadly with 172 journalistskilled. Since the US-led invasion in 2003, Iraq hasbeen the most dangerous country for journalists,with 65 deaths in 2007 alone – all but one of thatyear’s victims being Iraqi rather than a foreign corre-spondent. Around the world it is journalists operat-ing in their home countries who are most at risk,particularly when their country is politically unstable(IFJ, 2007 and 2008). Few, if any, journalists go outof their way to become targets for killers or kidnap-pers, yet no journalist can be certain as to whether ornot a particular story might attract unwelcomeattention.

The Law

The UK boasts of having a “free press” yetjournalists’ activities are constrained by more than60 pieces of legislation (see Box 2.1) and, at thelast count, a further 251 statutory legalinstruments (Petley, 1999: 143). Viewers of TVnews are given a clue about such legal constraintswhenever they see a reporter standing outside acourt building, telling us about a brief hearing inwhich somebody has made their first appearancein the dock, ending with the stock phrase:“Reporting restrictions were not lifted.” Whatrestrictions? Those contained in the Magistrates’Courts Act 1980, limiting (with very fewexceptions) reports of preliminary court hearingsto ten points that should be committed tomemory by every trainee journalist:

• The name of the court, and the names of themagistrates.

• Names, addresses, and occupations of theparties and witnesses, ages of the accused andwitnesses.

PRACTICE PRINCIPLES

budgetary control rather than “naked market forces”;nonetheless, public broadcasters operate in anincreasingly competitive environment and are certainlynot immune from market pressures (McQuail, 2000:259–261).In their “propaganda model” of how (US) media

operate, Edward Herman and Noam Chomsky identifymedia owners as the first of five filters through whichthe wealthy and powerful are able “to filter out the newsfit to print, marginalise dissent, and allow the govern-ment and dominant private interests to get theirmessages across” (Herman and Chomsky, 1988: 166).The filters are:

• wealth and concentrated ownership of dominantmedia firms

• advertising• reliance on information from the powerful• punitive action (flak) against transgressors• anti-communism (Herman and Chomsky, 1988:

166–176).

This model has been dismissed by critics as aconspiracy theory, as too mechanistic, as failing totake account of resistance. Herman counters:

[The] filters work mainly by independent action of manyindividuals and organisations. … [The] propagandamodel describes a decentralised and non-conspirator-ial market system of control and processing. … Wenever claimed that the propaganda model explainedeverything or that it illustrated media omnipotence andcomplete effectiveness in manufacturing consent.(Herman, 2000: 102–103).

Media themselves tend not to draw attention to the poten-tial impact of ownership structure on issues such as edito-rial content and diversity. Indeed, argues RobertMcChesney (2000: 294–295): “The news media avoid anydiscussion of media structure, leaving analysis of mediaownership and advertising to the business pages and thetrade press, where they are covered as issues that concerninvestors, not workers, consumers, or citizens.”

Routines

Journalists engage in routines, recurrent practicessuch as working to deadlines, keeping to word or timelimits, ensuring that each edition or bulletin is exactly



PRACTICE PRINCIPLES

• The offence(s), or a summary of them, withwhich the accused is or are charged.

• Names of counsel and solicitors in the proceedings.• Any decision of the court to commit the

accused, or any of the accused, for trial, andany decision on the disposal of the case of anyaccused not committed.

• Where the court commits the accused for trial,the charge or charges, or a summary of them,on which he or she is committed and the courtto which they are committed.

• Where proceedings are adjourned, the date andplace to which they are adjourned.

• Any arrangements for bail, including condi-tions, but not reasons for opposing bail.

• Whether Legal Aid was granted.• Any decision of the court to lift, or not to lift,

these reporting restrictions (Welsh andGreenwood, 2001: 39).

Given the meagre fare offered above, it is remark-able how reports of high-profile court appearances,lasting only a few minutes, are embellished. Extrainformation often includes the accused’s clothing,facial expression and tone of voice, or the presenceof the victim’s weeping relatives in the publicgallery. Jane Colston points out that, becauseSection 8 of the Magistrates’ Court Act 1980applies only to reports of the proceedingsthemselves, it would not be a breach to say, forexample, that large crowds assembled outside thecourthouse (Colston, 2002: 149). But what aboutreporting that the accused was conveyed in anarmed convoy, amid tight security, with policemarksmen on the roof of the court building? Doesthat not imply that the defendant is extremelydangerous and, therefore, probably guilty?

Journalists frequently push against legalconstraints, stretching the boundaries of whatthey might report – a little. They usually get awaywith it. Sometimes, however, there are spectacu-lar pratfalls. When the Sunday Mirror publishedan emotional interview with a victim’s father

full, conforming to house style, making regular checkcalls to official sources, and covering diary jobs.There is an occupational pressure on journalists to“bow to the imperative of routine news copy produc-tion” (Manning, 2001: 52). Although the unexpectedmay happen at any time, crises develop patterns sothat, for journalists, even “the unexpected becomesthe predictable” (Curran and Seaton, 1997: 276).Research has consistently found that “content issystematically and distinctively influenced by organi-sational routines, practices and goals rather thaneither personal or ideological factors” (McQuail, 2000:244–245).

Advertisers

The interests of advertising can influence journalisticproduct, although such influence does not normallytake the form of advertisers threatening to take theirmoney elsewhere unless they receive favourableeditorial coverage. Direct intervention by advertisersdoes happen occasionally but much less often thanmany people would think. A far more prevalent influ-ence is that the content patterns and style of mediaare matched to the consumption patterns of targetaudiences (McQuail, 2000: 261). Commercial mediaoperate in a “dual product market” in which the mediaproduct sells itself to consumers and at the same timesells its audience to advertisers (Sparks, 1999: 53;Doyle, 2002: 12). Mass circulation newspapersdemand a mass readership for mass advertising,while the “quality” press depend on delivering smallertarget audiences for more niche advertising markets.The quest for these different audiences directly affectsthe journalism offered in different titles, as ColinSparks notes:

The popular press are under market pressure to try toreach the widest possible audiences, and thus mustprioritise the kinds of material that will sell vastquantities. Quality newspapers are much less inter-ested in maximising circulation, and are concernedto prioritise the kinds of material that will sell toparticular kinds of people. … The products that servethe richest audience are approximations to thenewspaper of democratic mythology. The othersare quite different commodities. Sparks, 1999: 53and 59)



PRACTICE PRINCIPLES

while the jury in a high-profile assault trial wasstill considering its verdicts, the case was immedi-ately halted. The paper was fined £75,000 forcontempt of court and ordered to pay costs of£130,000. Two of the newspaper’s lawyers weredismissed and the editor resigned (Hall, 2002;Media Lawyer, 2002: 19–20). Not a good day atthe office. Journalists sometimes challenge thecourts’ interpretation of the law in a more formalmanner. The journalists’ trade rag Press Gazettefrequently cites cases of reporters persuadingcourts to lift orders banning publication of defen-dants’ identities and other information that,arguably, should be in the public domain (PressGazette, 2000a and 2002).

Laws that act as a constraint on journalists inEngland and Wales are listed in Box 2.1. The lawin Northern Ireland is broadly similar to that inEngland and Wales, but Scotland has its own legalsystem (see Bonnington et al., 2000, as recom-mended by Welsh and Greenwood, 2001: 435).

Not even included in Box 2.1 is breach of confi-dence, which has been described by lawyer JoannaLudlam as “one of the most significant fetters onfreedom of expression in the media” (Ludlam,2002: 89). Journalists have come up against thiswith increasing frequency in recent years, asgovernments, employers and celebrities alike haveobtained injunctions preventing the media report-ing “confidential” information supplied by spies,employees, and even spouses or ex-lovers (Welshand Greenwood, 2001: 261–279 and 387–410;Grundberg, 2002: 114–130; Ludlam, 2002:89–103).The use of injunctions citing breach of confi-dence – by those who can afford to go to court – hasdrawn public attention to the issue of privacy.Before the Human RightsAct 1998 (which becamelaw in October 2000) there was no specific legalright to privacy in the UK.TheAct incorporates theEuropean Convention on Human Rights, Article 8of which gives everyone “the right to respect for hisprivate and family life, his home and his correspon-dence”. But actions under Article 8 are weighed bythe courts against the journalist’s defence,enshrined inArticle 10, that “everyone has the right

Public relations

At the heart of public relations, according to DanielBoorstin, is the “pseudo-event”, which he defined inthe early 1960s as something planned rather thanspontaneous, arranged for the convenience of themedia, with an ambiguous relation to reality (Boorstin,1963: 22–23). For Boorstin, the pseudo-eventconfuses the roles of actor and audience, object andsubject. For example, a politician can compose a newsstory by “releasing” a speech to the media, while ajournalist can generate an event by asking aninflammatory question (Boorstin, 1963: 40).Since Boorstin described the rise of the pseudo-

event, “public relations staffs have expanded whilejournalists have been shrinking, creating news media’sgreater editorial reliance on press officers” (Franklin1997: 19). Organisations ranging from local charities tomultinational corporations now employ press officerswho supply journalists with a stream of potentialstories, comments and fillers. This process has beendescribed as an “information subsidy” through whichmedia organisations receive a flow of free material thatwill “favour those, notably business and government,best able to produce strong and effective PR material”(Lewis et al., 2008a: 2 and 18).Press officers do not just supply information, they

also play a role in controlling access. Writing in thecontext of music journalism, Eamonn Forde arguesthat the industry press officer has become increasinglypowerful as a “buffer zone”, gatekeeping access toartists and screening journalists along the lines of “theHollywood approach to press management” (Forde,2001: 36–38). For Bob Franklin, the growing power andjournalistic reliance on press officers comes at a pricebecause “they are not detached observers andreporters of the world, but hired prize fighters,advocates and defenders of whichever sectional inter-est employs them” (Franklin, 1997: 20).Such “hired prize fighters” in the political arena, such

as Sir Bernard Ingham and Alastair Campbell, havebeen key to the process described as “the packagingof politics” (Franklin, 1994: 226). Former BBC lobbycorrespondent Nick Jones is uncomfortable with politi-cal reporting based on unattributable conversationswith politicians or advisers, and he has been ridiculedby Campbell himself as being “obsessed with spin”(Gopsill, 2001). But David Walker is critical of the self-conception of Jones and otherWestminster journalists:



Box 2.1


These pieces of legislation regulate or restrict the ways in which journal-ists in England andWalesmay gather information, what information theymay have access to, and/or what may be published.

Access to Justice Act 1999Administration of Justice Act 1960Adoption and Children Act 2002Anti-Terrorism, Crime and SecurityAct 2001

Broadcasting Act 1990Broadcasting Act 1996Children Act 1989Children and Young Persons Act 1933`Communication Act 2003Contempt of Court Act 1981Copyright, Designs and PatentsAct 1988

Courts Act 2003Crime and Disorder Act 1998Crime (Sentences) Act 1997Criminal Justice Act 1925Criminal Justice Act 1987Criminal Justice Act 1991Criminal Justice Act 2003Criminal Justice and Public OrderAct 1994

Criminal Procedure and InvestigationsAct 1996

Data Protection Act 1998Defamation Act 1952Defamation Act 1996Disability Discrimination Act 1995Domestic and Appellate Proceedings(Restriction of Publicity) Act 1968

Employment Tribunals Act 1996Family Law Act 1986Financial Services and Markets Act 2000Freedom of Information Act 2000Human Rights Act 1998Interception of Communications Act 1985Judicial Proceedings (Regulation ofReports) Act 1926

Libel Act 1843Local Government (Access toInformation) Act 1985

Local Government Act 2000Magistrates’ Courts Act 1980Obscene Publications Act 1959Obscene Publications Act 1964Official Secrets Act 1911Official Secrets Act 1989Planning (Hazardous Substances)Act 1990

Planning (Listed Buildings andConservation Areas) Act 1990

Police Act 1997Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984Police and Criminal Evidence Act 2002Political Parties, Elections andReferendums Act 2000

Proceeds of Crime Act 2002Protection from Harassment Act 1997Public Bodies (Admission to Meetings)Act 1960

Public Order Act 1986Racial and Religious Hatred Act 2006Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act2000

Rehabilitation of Offenders Act 1974Representation of the People Act 1983Representation of the People Act2000

Serious Organised Crime and Police Act2005

Sexual Offences (Amendment) Act 1976Sexual Offences (Amendment) Act 1992Sexual Offences Act 2003Terrorism Act 2000Terrorism Act 2006Trade Union Reform and EmploymentRights Act 1993

Treason Felony Act 1848Wireless Telegraphy Act 1949Youth Justice and Criminal Evidence Act1999


PRACTICE PRINCIPLES


to freedom of expression” (Welsh and Greenwood,2001: 371). Many “victims” of the redtop tabloidsnow prefer to rush straight to the courts ratherthan trust the more sedate inquiries of thePress Complaints Commission (see below).

Apart from breach of confidence, theother main legal weapon in the hands ofthose with money is the law of libel. Ever-present during a journalist’s working life isthe possibility of being sued for libel becauseof defaming somebody. The risk is lower thanit might be because many potential litigants areput off by the horrendous costs involved, but itwould be easier to avoid if there were a hard-and-fast rule of what defamation is. According to thecourts, a statement is defamatory if it tends toexpose someone to hatred, ridicule or contempt;if it causes someone to be shunned or avoided; ifit causes someone to be lowered in the estimationof other people; if it disparages someone in theirbusiness or profession. The statement may notactually have such effects, only a tendencytowards them in the eyes of a “reasonable man”(Welsh and Greenwood, 2001: 186).

Considering the above definition, much of thework of journalists could be considered as defam-atory were it not for the defences offered in law.The main ones are:

• justification (proving that the report is true)• fair comment (an honest opinion, based on

facts, without malice)• privilege (the right to fairly report parliament,

council meetings, court cases and certain otherproceedings affording either absolute or quali-fied privilege) (Welsh and Greenwood, 2001:211–239).

Despite these defences, the libel courts arenotoriously dangerous ground for journalists, andmany news organisations err on the side of caution,settling ‘out of court’ rather than risking hugedamages. The net result is what has been referredto as a “chilling” effect, whereby journalists may

“They believe there is a single truth within and aboutpolitics. Battles over it form the staple of political

reporting. Victory in this strugglefor the single truth gives themtheir occupational justification”(Walker 2002: 103).Walker goeson to claim that this “anti-ideological” ideology of politicalreporters – that is, the idea thatpolitical reporting is a battle fortruth between journalists and

spin doctors – takes no account ofthe possibility that media organisations might also bepolitical players in their own right: “[T]the power held byjournalists and the media organisations for which theywork is unperceived or assumed away” (Walker, 2002:108).

Social environment

New recruits to journalism go through a process of“assimilation of newsroom mythology and socialisa-tion”, and those who survive learn “a way of doingthings” that results in “a conformity of production andselection” (Harrison, 2000: 112–113). This profession-alism “can only be recognised by fellow professionals”(McQuail, 2000: 257). Robert McChesney argues thatmost journalists are socialised into internalising theirrole as “stenographers for official sources”, with theresult that: “When a journalist steps outside this rangeof official debate to provide alternative perspectives, orto raise issues those in power prefer not to discuss,this is no longer professional” (McChesney, 2002: 17,my emphasis).However, the extent to which journalism is

constrained in this way is questioned by GregMcLaughlin’s study of reporting the Kosovo conflict. Hefound that, while many reporters may have internalisedNato’s frame of reference, this did not entirely deter-mine how stories were presented, and “it would bewrong to dismiss as irrelevant the resistance of somejournalists to Nato spin control” (McLaughlin, 2002a:258). Paul Manning similarly warns of downplayingagency:

[There] is a danger that in envisaging the practice ofnews journalism as a production process, shaped bybureaucratic routines and organisational imperatives,

‘A solicitor’s letterproduces a spectacular effectin a newspaper office – editorsput work aside, executivesare summoned, anxiousconferences convened.’– Alan Watkins.


avoid certain subjects or litigious individuals(Dodson, 2001; Welsh and Greenwood, 2001:183). Publisher and pensions thief Robert Maxwellwas one of the quickest on the draw when it cameto issuing writs against anyone probing his businessaffairs, and during his lifetime he succeeded inpreventing most – but not all – journalists fromexposing his dubious methods (Spark, 1999: 147).Other powerful figures to make use of the law oflibel against inquisitive journalists, only to end upbeing discredited, were Conservative politiciansJeffrey Archer, Jonathan Aitken and Neil Hamilton(Kelso, 2001). Journalists cannot guarantee theywill never be dragged through the courts by therich and powerful, but Francis Wheen suggests asimple way of reducing the risk when he says: “Idon’t like to go into print without checking myfacts” (Wheen, 2002: xi). That’s a pretty soundstarting point for any journalist. Furthermore, animportant House of Lords ruling has now givenjournalists a series of pointers – known as the“Reynolds defence” – to help test if a potentiallydefamatory story could be defended as being in thepublic interest. The Reynolds defence is discussedfurther in Chapter 6.

Journalists sometimes find themselves in court notbecause somebody wants to extract money or anapology, but because somebody wants to know theidentity of a confidential source ofinformation. That’s whathappened to Bill Goodwin afterhe took a phone call just threemonths into his first job as atrainee reporter with TheEngineer magazine.A source toldhim about a company infinancial difficulties. He calledthe firm for a response and thereply was a faxed injunctionordering the magazine not to publish anything aboutthe company.Two days later he was in court facing anorder to disclose the identity of his source or be sentto prison (Goodwin, 1996).

PRACTICE PRINCIPLES

we underestimate the extent to which particular journal-ists do make a difference. (Manning, 2001: 53, empha-sis in original)

If agency is a crucial consideration when discussingconstraints, so too is the extent to which the socialcomposition of the workforce influences journalisticpractice. Anne Perkins asserts that, because relativelyfew women rise to the most senior editorial positions,“a distorted image of women’s lives protrudes from thenewsstands” (Perkins, 2001). But this assumption ischallenged by Karen Ross, who studied womenjournalists in the UK:

Gender alone will not make a difference in changing theculture of newsrooms or in the type of news produced,inasmuch as a journalist’s sex is no guarantee that sheor he will either embrace sentiments that privilegeequality or hold specific values and beliefs that promotea more equitable and non-oppressive practice. Ross,2001: 542, my emphasis)

Similarly, it may indeed be shameful that journalists inthe UK – rather like journalism professors – areoverwhelmingly white, but can we assume that journal-istic practice would be significantly altered merely bythe presence of more black journalists? Or morejournalists from working-class backgrounds?Research is inconclusive but some studies suggestthat journalists owe more of their relevant attitudes andtendencies to “socialisation from the immediate workenvironment” than to their personal or socialbackgrounds (McQuail, 2000: 267–269).

Nick Stevenson sounds a cautionary note about thetendency of media theorists to “overstate the incor-porating power of ideology” (Stevenson, 2002: 46).Questioning assumptions that the socialbackground of journalists leads automatically to amiddle-class perspective in their output, he arguesnot that class composition has no influence, butthat there are ideological divisions and conflictswithin classes, limiting the degree of “ideologicalclosure” achieved by the structural dominance ofjournalism by white middle-class graduates(Stevenson, 2002: 33).

The prevailing atmosphere in newsrooms, the extentto which dissent can survive and journalists haveideological room to breathe, cannot be divorced fromthe existence or otherwise of an effective collectiveforum, argues Paul Foot in this chapter. His point is


‘If it has fallen to mydestiny to start a fight to cutout the cancer of bent andtwisted journalism in our

country with the simple swordof truth and the trusty shieldof British fair play, so be it.’– Jonathan Aitken, launching

his ill-fated libel action.


echoed by McChesney, who pointsout that rocking the boat can be arisky business for journalists. LikeFoot, he advocates “strong,progressive unions” as a bulwark todefend journalistic integrity againstcommercial pressures (McChesney,

2000: 61 and 301–304).

PRACTICE PRINCIPLES

Goodwin refused, citing the principleenshrined in the NUJ code of conductthat a journalist should protect a confi-dential source of information. Over thefollowing seven years the case wentbefore a succession of courts before hewon at the European Court of Human Rights,which ruled in 1996 that an order to disclose asource could not be compatible with Article 10of the European Convention on Human Rightsunless there was an overriding requirement in thepublic interest (Welsh and Greenwood, 2001:286).

Similarly, freelance journalist Robin Ackroydfought a long and ultimately successful battle todefend the source of his 1999 Daily Mirror storyabout the treatment of Moors murderer Ian Bradyin Ashworth high-security hospital. The MerseyCare NHS Trust, which runs the hospital,launched legal proceedings to force him toidentify his source. During eight years of legalpressure he stood by the NUJ code of conductand, with backing from his union, defended theprinciple of protecting confidential sources duringa series of court cases and appeals. High Courtjudge Mr Justice Tugendhat ruled in Ackroyd’sfavour, declaring that the journalist had “a recordof investigative journalism which has beenauthoritatively recognised, so that it would not bein the public interest that his sources should bediscouraged from speaking to him where it isappropriate that they do so” (quoted in Gopsilland Neale, 2007: 280–282). Even then, the casewas not over until the House of Lords refused theMersey Care NHS Trust’s application for a thirdappeal in 2007. Ackroyd, who had spent almost athird of his career fighting the case, saidafterwards:

It’s had a huge impact on my work. … But journalistsultimately, if they are faced with a position like this,have to make a stand as an individual and I wasprepared to do that. You have to be quite strong andprepared to do your utmost to protect your sources, in


‘If one journalist betraysa source, others will be lesswilling to come forward in

the future.’– Bill Goodwin.


PRACTICE PRINCIPLES

terms of both saying it and also thinking about howyou physically do it. (Quoted in Journalist, 2007b)

There is always a new case just around the corner,it seems. In 2008 freelance journalist Shiv Malikfaced police demands under the Terrorism Act2000 that he hand over notes he had gatheredwhile researching a book on Islamic radicals. Malikresisted, explaining that “protection of sources is atotem of all investigative journalism and almostnone of my work to date has been possible withoutthe promise of confidentiality” (Malik, 2008).

Such cases will continue to be fought on theirindividual merits as journalists resist attempts toidentify confidential sourcesand/or to seize notes orpictures. Meanwhile, the safestway for journalists to be givenleaked information probablyremains the unmarked photo-copy in a plain brownenvelope delivered anony-mously in the dead of night bysomebody wearing gloves ontheir hands and a scarf overtheir face; a journalist cannot be forced to revealthe identity of a source they do not know.

Before we leave the powersof the state, let us pause andconsider the Defence, Pressand Broadcasting AdvisoryCommittee. That’s whereWhitehall mandarins meetrepresentatives of the UKmedia and agree to restrain coverage of sensitivemilitary or security issues. From time to timemembers of the committee will stir from theirEarl Grey tea and cucumber sandwiches to issuea Defence Advisory (DA) notice or morecommonly to write a polite letter to editors,requesting that some matter be ignored orplayed down. In these days of so-called opengovernment, the committee has its own website


which includes minutes of its meetings:www.dnotice.org.uk. The whole thing is entirelyvoluntary on the part of the media, operating as“an unofficial system of censorship involvingpublic officials and senior media executives”(Curran and Seaton, 1997: 367). DA notices are,in effect, a system of self-censorship and are notto be confused with self-regulation, of whichmore below.

Regulation and self-regulation

Journalism on television and radio in the UK issubject to what is known as statutoryregulation, whereby misdemeanours can bepunishedwith fines and even thewithdrawal oflicences. Lindsay Eastwood noticed thedifference in regulatory regimes as soon as sheleft newspapers for television:

TV is much stricter on things like intrusion, andtaste and decency. You can’t have people saying“God” or “Jesus Christ” in a voxpop, because if one

person complains and it’s upheld, it counts. They arequite careful at Calendar not to upset people, whereasnewspapers are not bothered so much about flak. I thinkthe difference is you can lose your licence with TV.They can shut you down, so there’s a bit more atstake really.

In contrast to the broadcast system of finesbeing imposed and licences being revoked,print and online journalism has a system of self-

regulation. The Press Complaints Commission(PCC) was set up in 1991 by the newspaper industryitself to ward off the threat of privacy laws or broad-cast-style statutory regulation. It covers newspapers,magazines and, since 2007, websites associated withnewspapers and magazines – including audio andvisual material. A voluntary arrangement with nopowers to punish those who transgress its code ofpractice, the PCC operates by a system of customer

‘I always tell themstart-off payis abysmal and if they arelucky it will move on to

disgraceful after a year, and bythe end of the training itwill be only just short of

appalling.’– Sean Dooley,former Northcliffe editor.

‘Forty years experience of“press self-regulation” demon-strates only that the veryconcept is an oxymoron.’– Geoffrey Robertson QC.


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complaints. But only a tiny proportion of suchcomplaints are ever adjudicated. Of the 4,340received in 2007 just 16 were upheld (PCC, 2008).Rather than being the industry’s policeman,the PCC is perhaps more like a policecommunity support officer – they look likethe police from a distance yet they have littleclout when challenged. With the PCC,comments journalist Catherine Bennett, “we getall the benefits of a code of practice, with none of theburden of enforcement” (Bennett, 2001).

Despite its relative toothlessness, the PCC does actas some kind of constraint on the activities ofjournalists. Sun editor Rebekah Wade told acommittee of MPs in 2003 that the PCC had“changed the culture in every newsroom in the land”(quoted in Rose, 2003). Editors have no desire to beembarrassed by PCC rulings – which they agree topublish – and will not look favourably on journalistswho attract too many complaints. Print journalists asa whole, and those on the redtops in particular, alsoknow that a recurrence of press “excesses”, such as theperceived harassment of Princess Diana,may result inmore stringent state regulation.Tony Blair raised sucha possibility in a speech about the “feral” press, butsignificantly he did so only when he was already onhis way out of Downing Street, leaving incomingPrime Minister Gordon Brown to declare:

[A] free press is the hallmark of our democracy. There isno case for statutory regulation of the press. Self-regulationof the press should be maintained and it is for the publish-ers themselves to demonstrate by their decisions that theycan sustain and bolster public confidence in the way infor-mation is gathered and used. (Quoted in Rose et al., 2007)

So press self-regulation in the UK looks to be safe –for now.

Media Owners

As with self-regulation, so with concentration ofownership: big media proprietors are used to getting

their own way. That can act as a further constrainton the journalists they employ, critics argue. Thathelps explain why staff on the Wall Street Journal

were less than keen on their titlebeing taken over by RupertMurdoch in 2007; they werenervous about what they hadheard about his empire. About

Sam Kiley, for example, who spent11 years as a foreign correspondent on Murdoch’sTimes before resigning in 2001, exasperated byreports on the Middle East conflict being changed inline with the perceived views of the owner:

Murdoch’s executives were so scared of irritating himthat, when I pulled off a little scoop by tracking, inter-viewing and photographing the unit in the Israeli armywhich killed Mohammed al-Durrah, the 12-year-oldboy whose death was captured on film and became theiconic image of the conflict, I was asked to file the piece“without mentioning the dead kid”. After that conver-sation, I was left wordless, so I quit. (Kiley, 2001)

Another journalist who complained of constraintson the same newspaper was former East Asia editorJonathan Mirsky.He says his coverage was hamperedby the Times’ desire to stay in tune with RupertMurdoch’s business interests in China, so everythingwas done to avoid upsetting the Chinese authorities:

I saw the paper change from one keenly interested inreporting and analysing China to one so apprehensivethat the editor spiked a piece by me on cannibalismduring the Cultural Revolution … because he washaving lunch that day at China’s London embassy. …Of course, the Murdochs do not need to tell theireditors what to write about China on every issue; theyjust know. (Mirsky, 2001, my emphasis)

Andrew Neil, former editor of the SundayTimes, describes Murdoch’s normal methods ofcontrol as rather more subtle, beginning withchoosing editors “who are generally on the samewavelength as him” (quoted in Sanders, 2003:

‘I did not come all this waynot to interfere.’– Rupert Murdoch.


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power without responsibility – the prerogative of theharlot throughout the ages. (Quoted inGriffiths, 2006:251–252)

In 1949 Lord Beaverbrook told the RoyalCommission on the Press that he ran the Daily

Express “merely for the purpose ofmaking propagandaand with no other motive”, and in the 1980s RobertMaxwell described the Daily Mirror as his personal“megaphone” (Curran and Seaton, 1997: 48 and 76).

Former Mirror journalist Paul Foot describes suchproprietorial influence on journalism as “absolutelyinsufferable”. Yet he did suffer it in the shape ofMaxwell, and he managed to produce muchchallenging journalism in spite of it. Foot recallshow he pinned up a list of Maxwell’s businessfriends and, whenever he was investigating one ofthem,made sure he had the story copper-bottomedand “legalled” (checked by lawyers) before thesubject would be approached for a comment:

The minute you put it to him – “is this true?” – he ringsMaxwell. That happened on several occasions. So youhave to have the story sewn up and prepared for whenMaxwell says: “Are you sure this is right?” But we gotmost of the stuff published.

A survey in theUSA found that almost one-third oflocal journalists admitted to softening the tone of anews story in line with their employer’s interests, andone in five reporters had been criticised by bosses forstories damaging to their company’s financial interests(Pew Research Centre, 2000). In Italy, an employee ofSilvio Berlusconi described the atmosphere when theowner was also the country’s Prime Minister: “Wenever hear from him directly, editors don’t cite hisinstructions. But there is a climate of self-censorship.We know we can only go so far. Lines exist and we donot cross them.” (Quoted in Carroll, 2002)

But for most journalists in most newsrooms,most of the time, proprietorial interference proba-bly means little more than an editor’s instruction tomake sure you don’t crop the owner’s wife off aphotograph or there’ll be hell to pay.Many journal-ists go about their work without giving the wishes

134). He can certainly pickthem, as demonstrated by theway the editorial line of all 175Murdoch-owned newspaperson three continents justhappened to agree with his own pro-war stanceleading up to the 2003 conflict in Iraq(Greenslade, 2003a).

Murdoch has been an easy target for those whoclaim media owners wield too much power. But it isnot only journalists taking the Murdoch shilling whofeel proprietorial constraints, explicit or implicit.David Walker confesses:

At the Independent I spilled much ink in editorialssavaging his [Murdoch’s] power and pricing strategy.But such criticism is vitiated by a lack of honesty aboutone’s own organisation. How many Independentjournalists, myself included, ever wrote in their ownnewspaper about the effects of ownership by MirrorGroup Newspapers? (Walker, 2000: 241)

TheExpress is another title that has published stories inharmonywith the commercial interests of its proprietor.Owner Richard Desmond has also been accused ofinterfering in editorialmatters by urging the inclusion ofcoverage critical of asylum seekers,prompting oneof hisbusiness correspondents to issue a public attack on “thecontinual interference of the proprietor in allegedlyobjective reporting” (quoted in Day, 2001).

There is nothing new in media owners being accusedof using their journalists to pursue certain agendas. It wasin 1931 that Conservative party leader Stanley Baldwinlaunchedhis famous attack onpress baronsBeaverbrookand Rothermere, owners of the then hugely influentialDaily Express and Daily Mail respectively:

The newspapers attacking me are not newspapers in theordinary sense. They are engines of propaganda for theconstantly changing policies, desires, personal wishes,personal dislikes of two men. What are their methods?Their methods are direct falsehood, misrepresentations,half-truths, the alteration of the speaker’s meaning bypublishing a sentence apart from the context. …What theproprietorship of these papers is aiming at is power, and

‘Editors hire in their ownimage.’– Gary Younge.


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of the owner a second thought. Yet proprietorshave influence not just by direct intervention or byestablishing lines that will not be crossed. They setthe tone, they decide which markets to target, theycontrol editorial budgets, and they hire and fire theeditors who are their representatives on Earth.

There are some alternative models of mediaownership.The publicly-owned BBC enshrines theReithian principles of public service broadcasting(Briggs and Burke, 2002: 160–163); the Guardianis owned by the Scott Trust, with a strict separationbetween financial and editorial matters (Franklin,1997: 98); and smaller-scale media may be run byad-hoc groups, community organisations orworkers’ co-operatives (Harcup, 1994 and 2005).Journalists working for such media may escape theowner wishing to use them as a personalmegaphone, but they cannot avoid most of theother constraints discussed in this chapter.

Routines

Deadlines, routines and the whims of the newsdesktend to be the most prevalent constraints onjournalists. Routines may change as the technologychanges, but there are still routines even if onlinejournalism means that a story is never finished thesedays (was it ever really finished even in the old days?).The constant pressure tomeet deadlines, including theinstant deadlines, of online and rolling broadcast news,teaches journalists that an average story delivered ontime is of more use than a perfect story that arriveslate. Not that the deadline is always bad news. Manyjournalists welcome deadlines for providing the focus,and the adrenalin rush, necessary to get the job done.

Although the latest technology could mean thatnewspaper deadlines become later, in practicethey have moved forward to cope with smallerstaff numbers and the printing of fatter paperswith ever more bulky supplements. Time is ateven more of a premium on television, as LindsayEastwood discovered when she switched fromnewspapers to become a TV reporter:


It takes so long to do everything. You’ve got to set upthe story and organise camera crews, and it takes anhour to film a minute’s worth of stuff. There’s just somuch faffing about and not actually doing the journal-ism, which I find very frustrating. You’re still getting ashot of the house while all the newspaper reporters areknocking on the doors of neighbours, and I’m saying tothe cameraman, “Come on”. Then you’ve got to getback to the studio to cut it before deadline.

Faced with a constant shortage of time, journalistsmake many decisions instantly, almost subliminally.News editor DavidHelliwell saysmost of the numer-ous press releases arriving on a newsdesk will receivejust one or two seconds’ attention before a journalistdecides if it might make something. Spending fiveminutes pondering each one in detail would quicklybring the routines of the newsroom grinding to a halt.

Time constraints can result in inaccurate journal-ism, believes Martin Wainwright of the Guardian:

You’re doing stuff so quickly you don’t have time to beabsolutely sure about things, and more importantly thepeople you’re talking to don’t. So they will say things theybelieve to be true, about a developing situation, whichthen turn out not to be. It happened in the [Selby] railcrash when for a nearly a week everybody said 13 peoplehad been killed. The police said 13 people had beenkilled. In fact it now turns out to be 10. A central fact ofthe whole story was wrong for nearly a week, andsomebody coming across a newspaper from that weekand not checking a week later will not get the truth.

Lack of timemay also lead to journalists falling shortof professional standards, as Michael Foley notes:“Much that passes for unethical behaviour takes placebecause too few journalists are taking too manydecisions quickly and without time to reflect. This isbecause proprietors have not invested in journalism”(Foley, 2000: 49–50). Maybe. But the UK nationalpaper enjoying some of the heaviest editorial invest-ment is the Daily Mail, hardly a stranger to complaintsof unethical behaviour or inaccurate reporting.

Even on the squeaky-clean Guardian, reporterscan be constrained by being sent out when


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somebody else has apparently decided in advancewhat the story is. Wainwright again:

During the foot and mouth crisis the newsdesk said tome: “Can you go shopping and see the meat panic? Andwe do want a meat panic.” You’re always coming upagainst that kind of pressure. It’s a really perniciousaspect of modern journalism, that they don’t trustpeople like myself who are here. They think they knowwhat the story is because they’ve read it in the DailyMail or heard it on the Today programme.

He adds that reporters sometimes feel pressure todeliver the goods simply because the routines ofproduction planning mean that a large space hasbeen allocated in expectation of a major story:

A colleague had it with drug dealers. The story collapsedbut they [still] wanted a big thing about drug dealers.Theway they’d designed it and thought about it, it had to bebig. Lots of journalists I know complain about this andsay, “they’re not really interested in how I am seeing this”.

A similar point is made in a telling anecdote fromJohn Kampfner, who recalls a Conservative partymeeting he covered for the Financial Times duringwhich two politicians outlined their differingviews on the UK’s relationship with Europe:

Both had said as much many times before, and I wrote aquiet piece.That evening, the newsdesk at the FT, not oneusually to follow others’ stories, politely enquired if I hadbeen at the same event as my colleagues. They pointedout the screaming “Tories in meltdown” headlines.Somewhat chastened, I ratcheted up my story so as not tofeel exposed. I should not have done. It was a non-story.(Kampfner, 2007)

It is not unknown for a newsdesk to put pressureon a reporter to set aside personal or ethical consid-erations in the pursuit of a story. Even in organisa-tions publicly committed to following ethical codesof practice, there may be an atmosphere of if youhaven’t got the story, don’t bother coming back. For


example, journalists returning empty handed from“death knocks” – calls on the recently bereaved topick up quotes and pictures – may be ridiculed forbeing insufficiently aggressive. A sports reporter onthe Stoke Sentinel lost his job after refusing to seekan interview with one of his contacts whose sonhad died (Morgan, 1999).

Audience

Despite the fact that we now have lists of MostRead stories online, and that some people chooseto post reactions to Your Comments sections,journalists still have little direct experience of theways in which audiences consume their work. BBCforeign correspondent David Shukman was invitedto join a group of postal workers viewing two of hisTV news reports about Angola. The stories – oneabout landmines and the other about corruption –were understood by the viewers on one level, butonly as more or less random happenings in adistant land. “I never know which country iswhich,” said one of the group. Another added: “It’sin one ear and out the other” (Shukman, 2000). Indiscussion, they were asked if they felt indirectlyinvolved in the Angolan conflict; for example, bybuying petrol or diamonds that originated there,thereby aiding one side or the other. Suddenly theyengaged with the news stories on a different, morepersonal level, as Shukman notes:

[It] had taken talk of the possible connections withBritain to raise real concern. … The discussion hadcome alive. These were people who could follow theargument and did not want to be short-changed orpatronised. … For this group, foreign news, notalways the favourite of the newsrooms, was becomingstimulating. (Shukman, 2000)

His experience is interesting, given the tendency ofsome journalists to dismiss the audience as stupid(McQuail, 2000: 263). In a survey of US journalists,


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three-quarters of broadcast reporters said thatnewsworthy stories were sometimes or oftenignored because they were regarded as toocomplicated for the average person, a factor citedby just under half the print journalists.Almost eightin ten said they at least sometimes ignored storiesthat the audience might regard as “important butdull” (Pew Research Centre, 2000). In the UK,broadcast journalists report a large turn-off factorduring coverage of general elections and newspapereditors complain that sales go down whenever theyput election news on their front page. “People arejust not interested,” said David Yelland of the Sun(quoted in Tomlin and Morgan, 2001).

Every now and then journalists will receiveinjunctions from on high to produce more aspira-tional human interest stories, based on thefindings of surveys or focus groups of the existingor potential audience. At the same time as(supposedly) attracting new readers, such lifestylecopy – entertainment, holidays, health, consumerstories and so on – has been used to attractadditional advertisers.

Journalists are typically thought of as the activeones in the relationship with their audience, butaudiences are not always passive.Take the reactionto the Sun front page of April 19 1989, concern-ing the Hillsborough football disaster in which 95Liverpool fans died. Under the banner headlineTHE TRUETH, the paper reported anonymouspolice officers accusing “drunken Liverpool fans”of robbing the dead and attacking rescue workers.The reaction on Merseyside was based on the factthat so many people knew – via family, friends orpersonal experience – a different version of “thetruth”. Anger erupted on a Radio Merseysidephone-in, local newsagents put the paper underthe counter or refused to stock it at all, and a TVnews crew turned up at a shopping precinct justin time to film people burning copies of theoffending Sun (Chippindale and Horrie, 1992:286–289; Pilger, 1998: 445–448). There wasnothing passive about this particular audience:


All over the city copies of the paper were being rippedup, trampled and spat upon. People carrying it in thestreet found it snatched out of their hands and torn toshreds in front of them; the paper entirely disappearedfrom Ford’s plant at Halewood and dozens of landlordsbanned it from their premises. … Sun readers inLiverpool had voted spontaneously with their feet andsales of the paper had collapsed. … From sales beforethe disaster of 524,000 copies a day, the paper hadcrashed to 320,000 – a loss of 204,000, or 38.9 percent. (Chippindale and Horrie, 1992: 289–292)

That strength of reaction was notable preciselybecause it was so unusual. But hostile audiencereaction can act as a potential constraint onindividual journalists. The plus side is that thereporter who gets something wrong is likely toget calls, emails or letters from irate readers andwill learn not to make that mistake again. Theless positive side is that the prospect of drowningin a flood of abusive comments from theaudience might dissuade some journalists fromtackling particularly controversial subjects in thefirst place.

Public Relations

“It’s now a very good day to get out anything wewant to bury,” wrote government spin doctor JoMoore in her notorious email sent at 2.55pm onSeptember 11 2001, within an hour of the secondhijacked plane hitting New York’s World TradeCentre. Her memo, to senior colleagues in theDepartment for Transport, Local Government andthe Regions, continued with the helpful suggestion:“Councillors’ expenses?” (Clement and Grice,2001.) The department’s press office duly rushedout news release number 388 concerning a newsystem of allowances for local councillors (DTLR,2001). As predicted, the councillors’ expenses storywas ignored by a media concentrating on recountingthe rather greater horrors of the twin towers.


journalists are not particularly representative ofthat society? Newspaper editor Jon Grubbclearly believes so:

For too long newspaper editorial departments havebeen dominated by white, middle-classstaff. If newspapers want to trulyconnect with the community theymust strive to better reflect the multi-cultural nature of their audience. Thisissue is not just about colour.We needmore journalists with working-class

roots. Until papers can understand the problems, hopes,aspirations and fears of all sections of the communitythey will find it difficult to win their hearts and minds.(Quoted in Keeble, 2001b: 143)

Not just newspapers. Witness the prevalence ofOxbridge types at the BBC, particularly on moreprestigious programmes, such as Newsnight.Research suggests that the social environment inwhich journalists work “does not reflect thediversity of the UK population, either in terms ofethnic mix or social background”: 96 per cent ofjournalists are white and very few are fromworking-class backgrounds (Journalism TrainingForum, 2002: 8). Journalism professor Peter Colecalls it “shameful and disgraceful” that local papersin places such as Bradford, Oldham and Burnleyhave so few black journalists (Slattery, 2002).Ethnic minority journalists are sometimes seen asrepresentatives of the entire black community, orthe Muslim community; alternatively, they maybe warned against dwelling on race (Younge,2002). White British journalists, in contrast, arenot expected to represent “the white community” –even assuming there is such an entity – and arenot warned off “white issues”.

As well as being very white, newsrooms had arather blokey atmosphere in the past. However,the increasing proportion of women enteringjournalism in recent years has resulted in a more orless even split between the sexes (JournalismTraining Forum, 2002: 4). There may be more

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When her unwise words were leaked, Jo Moorebecame something of a hate figure and subsequentlylost her job.Butwasn’t she only doing her job? Isn’t thewhole public relations (PR) industry designed notsimply to promote good news about clients but to burybad news? Not according to the Institute of PublicRelations,which promotes ethical practice andexhorts its members to “deal honestly andfairly in business with employers, employees,clients, fellow professionals, other professionsand the public” (www.ipr.org.uk). But JoMoore was neither the first nor the last pressofficer to time the release of information to minimisecoverage; Friday afternoons and the beginning ofholiday periods seem to be particularly popular times.Others prefer disguising bad news with apparentlygood news, so that job losses become a footnote in apiece of puffery about an apparent expansion.

It might seem odd to discuss PR within a chapterconcerned largely with constraints on journalists.After all, the work of the PR industry is visible inthe media every day, and some short-staffednewspapers are only too grateful to be stuffed fullof scarcely-rewritten news releases. But PR is notjust about releasing information, it is also aboutcontrolling information. And controlling access.Many journalists have an ambivalent attitude toPR. On the one hand, they maintain they are toohard-bitten to listen to PR departments, yet theyare also quick to moan about bullying by politicalspin doctors, demands for copy approval on behalfof celebs, or the freezing out of journalists whodon’t comply (Helmore, 2001; O’Sullivan, 2001;Morgan, 2002b ). Perhaps an ambivalent attitude isonly natural. Although many press officers havegood working relationships with journalists, basedon trust and even grudging respect, the factremains that they are working to different agendas.

Colleagues

If journalists have a social role in informingsociety about itself, does it matter that


‘It’s now a very good day toget out anything we wantto bury.’– Jo Moore, September 11 2001.


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women in journalism but they are not always in themost powerful positions, as Anne Perkins notes:“The higher up a newspaper hierarchy you travel,the fewer women there are to be seen” (Perkins,2001). Even a female national newspaper editortold researchers that “much of journalism is still aboys’ club, with women struggling for professionalacceptance” (quoted in Journalism Training Forum,2002: 60).

Journalists are recruited from an even morelimited pool now that so many have to pay forpostgraduate journalism courses on top of normalundergraduate debt. Journalism can look like aclosed door to outsiders, as only 30 per cent ofjournalists get their first job after seeing it publiclyadvertised; others approach employers on spec,are offered a job after work experience, or hearabout vacancies through a range of informalmeans (Journalism Training Forum, 2002: 33). Inthe words of a Fleet Street sub:

Newspaper journalism fosters a culture of the clique.Anyone who does not fit into the prevailing clique’sclearly defined pigeon-holes tends to be viewed withsuspicion and ends up being marginalised or forcedout. People may be tolerated for their usefulness, butfew are promoted to the hierarchy, which remains aclub that promotes only those who they recognise asyounger versions of themselves. (Quoted in JournalismTraining Forum, 2002: 60)

The extent to which journalists internaliseprevailing attitudes, and reproduce them in theirwork, is a matter for debate among academicsand among some within journalism itself. Theissue is at its most acute during times of conflict.Commenting on his own reporting of theFalklands war, Max Hastings, who went on toedit the Daily Telegraph and Evening Standard,quoted approvingly the words of his journalistfather: “When one’s nation is at war, reportingbecomes an extension of the war effort.

Objectivity only comes back into fashion whenthe black-out comes down” (Quoted in Williams,1992: 156).

It is not necessarily a conscious process.While reporting Nato briefings in Brusselsduring the bombing of Serbia in 1999, SkyNews correspondent Jake Lynch felt that mostreporters had accepted the US/UK frame ofreference:

Journalists were prepared to accept the fundamentalframing of the conflict which Nato was conveying,namely that this was all the fault of SlobodanMilosevic. … [That] was internalised, unexamined, byjournalists … (Quoted in McLaughlin, 2002a: 258, myemphasis)

Independent reporter Robert Fisk was rather moreblunt about his colleagues’ shortcomings: “Most ofthe journalists at the Nato briefings were sheep.Baaaa Baaaaa! That’s all it was.” In turn,“mavericks” such as Fisk have been accused byfellow journalists of being more concernedwith making “political points” than withstraightforward reporting (quoted in McLaughlin,2002a: 263–264).

In war or peace, journalist colleagues canconstrain each other by creating an atmosphereof conformity in which anyone who is a bitdifferent or who challenges the norm isridiculed, bullied, forced out, marginalised ortolerated as the resident Jeremiah. But colleaguescan also support individuals, whether those likeBill Goodwin threatened with the power of thestate, or those facing pressure to act in unethicalways. That’s why Paul Foot would always urgejournalists to band together in a trade unionrather than stand alone. “You can only have analternative to the control of the editorial hierar-chy and the proprietor if you’ve got the disci-pline of being in a collective body behind you,”he argued.




Summary

The work of journalists is influenced by a range of structural factors, such as legalconstraints, regulatory regimes, the system of media ownership, organisational routines,shortage of time, market forces, advertising considerations, cultural bias, patriotism,professional ethos, and a gender, racial or class imbalance in the workforce. Constraintsand conflicting loyalties lead to claims that individuals have little influence on journalisticoutput, while others argue that constraints can be resisted or negotiated.

Would journalism in the UK be very different if Rupert Murdoch had stayed in Australia?

Why does the law place constraints on journalists?

Why should journalists protect confidential sources?

Are journalists and PR people friends or enemies?

Can a journalist’s background influence how they do their job?

Further reading

To read what Anna Politkovskaya (2008) was working on when she was murdered,see A Russian Diary. For a journalist’s story with a happier ending, seeAlan Johnston’s(2007) Kidnapped for a gripping and inspiring account of his 114 days in captivity inGaza. Many more everyday constraints are introduced in whistlestop but readablefashion by Keeble (2001b), who also discusses the response of journalists.Also highlyreadable is Knightley’s (2000) classic study of journalism and censorship in wartime.O’Malley and Soley (2000) offer a historical account of press regulation and self-regulation, including case studies of how the Press Complaints Commission hashandled particular issues. For legal constraints,Welsh and others (2007) is essential –but make sure you consult the very latest edition, and the 20th edition will be writtenby David Banks and Mark Hanna, due to be published in 2009. For more on the law,Bloy (2007) and Crone (2002) are useful companions. McQuail (2000) reviews arange of relevant theories and research findings, and Chapter 11 is particularly usefulhere.Tumber (1999) includes many relevant original readings, including Herman andChomsky on their propaganda model and Golding and Murdock on the influence ofeconomic power.McChesney (2000) offers a detailed and passionately argued case forjournalism being far too important to be left to market forces.

uestions??



Sources for soundbites

Politkovskaya, quoted in Specter, 2007;Younge, quoted in Thomas, 2006;Murdoch, quoted in Bailey andWilliams, 1997: 371; Watkins, 2001: 114; Robertson, quoted in Foley, 2000: 44; Aitken, quoted in BBC,1999; Goodwin, 1996; Moore, quoted in Clement and Grice, 2001.


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