Alex Massie Alex Massie

Pulitzer Bait

This post reminded me of a terrific piece Sarah Lyall (one of the NYT’s under-appreciated stars) wrote for Slate a couple of years ago. She made the mistake of attending the British Press Awards dinner. The Pulitzers these are not. Most papers crow about their own successes while failing to even report the existence of winners from other titles. Happily, however, there are enough award ceremonies for almost everyone to claim the title “Newspaper of the Year”. In their own way, the hacks treat these awards with the proper level of contempt and, since no-one spends all year dreaming of ways to win them we are at least spared the epic, 17-part thumb-sucking series on “Life” or “Death” or “Being a Deaf Quadraplegic” the American papers publish in a bid to win Pulitzers…

More than 900 journalists, all in black-tie, were crammed into a ballroom at the Hilton; they represented everything from the scrappiest, most sex-obsessed tabloid to the snootiest, worthiest broadsheet. So little did they have in common that it was like holding an awards ceremony for the entire animal kingdom, pitting carnivores against herbivores, fish against amoebas. The British Press Awards have been called “the Academy Awards of British journalism,” Britain’s answer to the Pulitzers. But last night’s ceremony—a mind-numbing parade of awards in 28 categories—was not a mutually respectful celebration of the British newspaper industry fueled by camaraderie and bonhomie. It was more like a soccer match attended by a club of misanthropic inebriates. The losers were not happy for the winners. “What’s he ever fucking reported, except what fucking Alastair Campbell told him?” a man sitting at a nearby table muttered when Trevor Kavanagh of the Sun was named Reporter of the Year (Campbell is Tony Blair’s former chief spokesman). The rule seemed to be that you were allowed to cheer only for awards won by a) someone at your own paper; or b) someone at a paper owned by your proprietor (e.g.,

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