Yesterday was a field day for TV broadcasters, as they were handed another opportunity to fill our screens with horror of rolling news. We were treated to all the mundane detail of the stand-off between armed police and gunman Raoul Moat. Anyone who had been within half a mile of the incident had a microphone thrust into their face and was expected to provide us with some new interesting titbit of information. In reality they provided such useful insights as “Yeah like…he’s got a gun…I’m knackered man.” (an approximation of a statement from passing cyclist). We also got an opportunity to watch a woman break down into tears over her mum (or is that “mam”, as the news readers picked as their new, dialect-friendly pronunciation for the day) being stuck in her house, fearing for her life. Not that these people are to be blamed. Their reactions were normal, it’s just that some deluded producer decided that they were worthy of national broadcast.
There was no safe haven from this. No news broadcaster would pass up on such an opportunity. Even the BBC looked like it had slumped into tabloidesque coverage, complete with flashbacks to the earlier, more dramatic scenes later on in the evening when there was nothing more to say. Though in this case “dramatic scenes” is a complete misnomer. Said scenes consisted of a mobile phone conversation that never seemed to end (which, oh joy, they played repeatedly through the night), dull comments from a few people who happened to be walking past as police moved in, and the aforementioned woman in hysterics. But hey, at least watching her gradually lose composition was fun, right?
The problem is that not only have we become accustomed to this type of coverage, we actually crave it. It brings some excitement to the day, as we peer in on an unfolding drama, like a neighbour peeking over the fence while next door have a good row, but from the comfort of an armchair, plonked in front of the telly. I’m not trying to claim innocence here. I got in from work, saw that there was a media shitstorm in progress, and immediately headed for the remote. It was something to take my mind straight off the day, and it passed the time while dinner cooked, or so I thought. I hardly felt calmer from watching it, and those sausages were just a tad more cooked than I’d planned. In fact, all that happened was that my evening was consumed by sloppy, poorly constructed coverage of an event with an outcome we all knew was coming. Just think of all the things I could have done instead. There was at least enough time for five or so episodes of The Good Wife (which I’m currently watching, and so should you be).
It’s our own fault though; we deserve every one of these media frenzies. They know that viewing figures will skyrocket, and that if they dedicate a section of the morning paper to a minute-by-minute breakdown they’ll have no problem shifting thousands upon thousands of copies. It’ll be the level of coverage we receive for as long as we remain ready to consume it. It’s just a shame nobody dangled a microphone down to Raoul so we could get his opinion, imagine that, we’d at least get a few complaints to Points of View to laugh at. That said I don’t suspect even he could have added a great deal to what we already knew. “Well there have been a few people come past, there was this cyclist bloke who looked well knackered. Anyway, I digress. I’ll fucking shoot the lot of you!”
Next time I’ll find out in the morning. I won’t bother staying tuned for a dragged out phone interview, some shaky footage from a mobile phone camera, or an explanation from a firearms expert (“Well you see, you point the gun at something you don’t want to be alive much longer, and then it isn’t”). I’ll turn it off and do something vaguely fulfilling. Alright, that’s a lie, but I’ll feel at least ten percent more guilty next time I slip up and watch this crap. Happy now?