We live in an era where journalism has been traduced by its practitioners to such a degree nothing should surprise us. Except, perhaps, when it comes to the decaying wreck of The Age and Sydney Morning Herald.
Social media recaps? What next? A dunny graffiti digest? The summary of the latest ramblings of the old woman who smells like rising damp on the 58 tram to West Coburg, assorted ice addicts who camp around Flinders Street Station and the mob outside the Salvos’ building on Bourke Street? Doorstopping the users of the Richmond safe injecting room?
They might make more sense than the vanity, moral posturing and desperate cries of “I’m still here. I matter” that passes for discourse on Twitter. The only reason why we won’t see them is that require more than cut and pasting. They require some real work. Some shoe leather. An ability to ask questions that can elicit a usable response.
Journalism, in other words: something Fairfax abandoned long ago.
PS: How hilarious is it that the “author” of this piece goes by the name of “Rota”? Rota and quota, no doubt. Quota of what is another matter.
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