Rick Victory 🍉

I have approximately as much respect for the great pantheon of British journalism as I do for the inconsiderate cunts who talk throughout a film, except that the latter generally have the decency not to organise an awards ceremony congratulating themselves on their magnificent contribution to public discourse. Jason Arday was subjected to an extraordinary campaign of public scrutiny, accusation and reputational destruction. His university did not uphold the allegations of plagiarism against his doctorate. He spoke openly about the devastating toll the relentless accusations were taking on him and his family. He resigned. Nine days later, he was dead. And what, pray tell, has the magnificent British journalistic establishment learned from this terrible sequence of events? Apparently, that there's a fucking award in it. Because here we have Times Higher Education enthusiastically celebrating the nomination of Jack Grove, whose submission centres on his own experience of being reported to the police while investigating Arday. What a magnificent feat of journalistic navel-gazing. A man dies amid a ferocious public controversy, and the institution that helped investigate him discovers that the really compelling story is the ordeal of the journalist. Good God. Fetch the champagne. Polish the statuettes. Summon the brass band. Perhaps somebody could arrange a standing ovation while the deceased man's family contemplates the wreckage. And spare me the sanctimonious fucking sermon about legitimate questions and the public interest. Of course academics should be scrutinised. Of course their work should withstand examination. But journalism is not a holy order, a press card is not a papal indulgence, and the words "just doing my job" are not a magical incantation absolving you of all responsibility for the consequences of your work. You want accountability? Marvellous. Then perhaps you might submit yourselves to a fraction of the scrutiny you were so extraordinarily enthusiastic about inflicting on somebody else. What did you get wrong? What did you exaggerate? What did you fail to contextualise? How prominently did you report the findings that contradicted the original allegations? At what point did legitimate investigation become a public spectacle? And why, when there are serious questions about the proportionality of the coverage, is the industry so terribly eager to congratulate itself? These are questions worthy of answers, rather than another pompous round of mutual backslapping from the assembled high priests of Fleet Street. I make no claim to know precisely what caused Jason Arday's death. But I know that a man's death ought to inspire rather more humility and introspection than this revolting spectacle of professional self-celebration. The British press is forever demanding that everyone else be held accountable, yet apparently regards examination of its own conduct as an outrageous affront to the sacred mysteries of journalism. A man is dead. His family is grieving. And you're polishing the fucking trophies. Have some shame, you insufferable, self-important bastards.