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I lived in a perfect world once, in my dreams, and its media respected quiet news days for what they were. Journalists were allowed to start drinking at breakfast instead of lunchtime. Newspapers just printed banners saying “No news is good news”.
Episodes of “Yes, What?” and “The Simpsons” ran in place of radio and TV news bulletins.
That was a good system.
The system that delivered us the Herald-Sun and its infamous “Soccer fans the worst” front page a couple of months back works along very different lines, and quiet news days are often the worst days of all.
The football community was right to be angry over the Hun’s treatment of it.
But what could it do? Arcing up over it with the venom it deserved would only draw attention to something unworthy of attention, risk reinforcing some negative stereotypes and generally play into the WUM’s hands.
So what did we do? We arced up, gave it the venom it deserved and drew attention to it as if Pavlov’s dog wasn’t a drooler, as if the workings of the mass media are a complete mystery too us, and thereby maximized the chances of a similarly bent headline appearing in the future; a sacrificial bunt, if you like.
Right on cue, on the next available deathly quiet news day, another football-related incident makes the papers and the bell rang again, the dog slobbered and in rushed some football supporters to feed it, turned a molehill into a mountain and set the table for the next meal.
It gets you thinking; or it does me.
How many Victorians are actually dumber than me? The feedback I’ve been getting says I’m down there with the two-bricks at the bottom of the barrel.
But it’s actually been measured by the government and there’s a lot more Victorians who are thicker than me than you’re probably thinking.
The official number is seven and I know them all personally.
That might be why I’m probably more relaxed than most about tabloid hatchet jobs; when you’re living in the poorest house in a rich intellectual street, you don’t have to worry too much about what everyone else is thinking – if I can cope with it, I can’t see you having any problems dealing with it.
How many Victorians out there who pick up a newspaper are too dumb to separate fact from fiction or a big story from a beat-up?
Close to zero – seven in 4.5 million at the most.
Nope, thank God I’m one of the least sharp tools in the shed because it sounds like hell on earth being an Einstein surrounded by simpletons: How will those idiots ever operate machinery safely, understand the physics of the rising sponge cake or handle their alcohol?
You’d have gut trouble, you’d be looking over people’s shoulder all the time, you’d be terrified of flying or letting anyone else drive or even use the whipper-snipper.
Worst of all, you’d be worrying yourself sick about what the all idiots were reading in the tabloids on the grounds that they’re probably all dumb enough to believe it.
I’m dumb but I’m not so dumb I haven’t twigged that I’m not actually the smartest bloke going around, which is why those seven morons I know are ranked beneath me – we’re all technically the same IQ (53) but they got marked down for thinking they’re cleverer than me.
Tabloid trolls appeal to prejudices and probably hardens them and crucifies a lot of innocent images and ideas in the process, but about the only minds tabloids are ever likely to change are those ones hanging beneath mine of the IQ tree down there in sub-Neanderthal class.
Why any sport would even want them on its side I don’t know but it’s obviously not a matter of pride.
I remind myself of that when I see the pitched battles for the hearts and minds being fought out by the code warriors in the Herald-Sun’s comments section on quiet news day.
The smartest of the smart have made up their minds and dug their trenches long ago and tortured Einsteins wander among them trying to swing the non-existent fence -sitters over to their point of view.
“Soccer should be banned, it’s for violent thugs.”
“At least it’s international you wig-wam for a goose’s bridle.”
There’s thousands of observations just like that, all cleverly designed to win the hearts and minds of the seven Victorians dumber than me who, like I said, are all friends of mine.
The good news for football is that none of them can actually read so even they’re not vulnerable to tabloid beat ups, and we already sit together on the wing at Victory matches.
My mates only follow football because I spray-painted “Sokkah Sucks” all over their cars and front fences and told them it was some guy in a Collingwood beanie.
“That does it,” they said as one, “We’re off to the soccer.”
They just wanted to stick it up whoever the spray-canner was, which is why I think there’s probably more for football to gain by either ignoring the Herald-Sun’s bait or if one can’t restrain oneself, by at least doing it constructively and weighing in with a deadbeat anti-sokkah message and signing off “Go Pies”. It works every time.
As does slagging off at other sports and signing off with “Go Sokkah” – it’s a great way to put them off the world game.
That’s been known for years though. World-game supporters have been thinking a step ahead since circa-1927, leaving moronic anti-sokkah diatribes in public places trying to make footy supporters seem like bigots and boors. It worked with me.
Footy does look to be catching up tactically and strategically though because these days AFL supporters are flooding the net with deliberately thickheaded anti-AFL messages that are clearly designed to make world game supporters look bad.
Who on this earth ever picked up a newspaper or logged on looking to have their mind changed or their prejudices challenged? Reading isn’t for education, it’s for recreation, or it is in my neck of the woods anyway.
Unless you’re fond of seeing anti-football stories in the press, ignore them.
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