I return from a self-imposed exile to the world of blogging. In the overdramatic throes of adolescence, I often wondered – nay, dreamed, doted, even – on the possible fame that I could muster from having my own blog. It was an incredible notion: I would receive recognition (and, hopefully, eventual payment) for doing what my English ancestry has conspired to help me do best – whinge.
Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happened. I droned on and on about the dreary, quasi-romantic adolescent tripe that one would expect: “She says she liked my poem about her being all the seasons, but I can just tell that she loathes it; – just look at the emojis she uses!” – and it wasn’t long before even I grew weary of the monotonous complaining.
Blogging is, in a sense, what drew me to journalism. Rather, it was the opinion section, the columns and columns of, well, columns. Here were people who could write about their opinions on matters and get paid to do so. Fantastic, I thought, I can write (how well, dear reader, I shall let you decide) and I have opinions, this is the very profession for me!
But columnists are a pathetically exclusive bunch, and at this early venture in my journalistic career, I’m unsure if I can make it into the Whinge for Money Club.
Which brings me back to blogging. We now have access to the thoughts and opinions of more people than we could ever hope to meet, which is fantastic news for the comment sections. With the hefty plethora of blogging outlets, you could fashion your own talent show to find the best opinionists around: Blog Idol, Blog Off, or On The Blog, perhaps?
You could gather groups of online keyboard-warrior-types and pit them off against one another, with the public voting off that week’s particularly silly online handle.
This could, I worry, pose a problem, though. Eventually, some Y-front sporting, cheese-whip quaffing, internet dweller would be crowned as the winner, and they would presumably be given something akin to regular column inches. They might begin to think themselves a genuine journalist, instead of the glorified, professional blogger they really are. They may very well take this new self-appointed journalistic title and use it to engage in a spot of their own notion of investigative journalism, driving up and down the country, parking up in front of houses with a box of doughnuts and a pair of binoculars, and dote this journalistic version of their previous online attic-dwelling pastime, which was gazing at nude ladies.