Remember when the popular image of a journalist was a hard-bitten, hard-smoking, hard-drinking hack, as cynical as he was determined to get the truth, no matter what?
Well, it seems the poor wee souls are a lot more sensitive than we all thought. Evidence of this was the reaction to my previous criticism on this blog. Journalists, it seems, are free to use whatever pejorative terms they like to describe politicians, but apparently I broke a number of rules by turning the tables.
The latest hurt feelings are revealed in an article by The Guardian‘s Bill Blanko (no, I don’t know if that’s his real name either). The most hurtful thing is the suggestion that I’m not even a household name in my own home. Which, of course, I am: in a recent poll of members of my immediate family, nearly half of respondents said they had heard of me. So there.