Guy Williams’ gatecrashing of the ACT leader David Seymour’s press conference at Waitangi was not funny, not justified, and not acceptable.
It debased the role of bona fide journalists and, worse, it was signal to every grandstander and malcontent that stand-up press conferences represent an ideal soapbox that is there for the taking.
In spite of his self-description as a “volunteer journalist”, Williams is not a journalist. He is a comedian and presenter. The closest he gets to the news is in lampooning current events. In short, he had no place there.
At Waitangi, David Seymour – rightly the focus of attention over his divisive Treaty Principles Bill – was holding an outdoors press conference with a large gathering of journalists when Williams interjected.
Microphone in hand and no doubt being videoed for his New Zealand Today show, Williams threw vitriol rather than questions at the ACT leader. He accused Seymour of spreading misinformation and “spinning shit” before obliquely casting doubt on the honesty of modern politicians. The only question Williams actually appeared to ask was whether Seymour was joking when he said he was improving the mana of the Treaty.
Seymour made light of the encounter and – smile on face – counterpunched with his opinion of Williams’ comedic skills.
It could all have been dismissed as a bit of silliness on the part of an entertainer looking to get a rise out of a politician. On the surface, that is exactly what it was. I have no doubt the footage, complete with Williams’ additional tuppence worth, will wind up in his show.
However, there is a deeper issue arising from the comedian’s antics: He violated an environment in which journalists collectively hold power to account by questioning those that hold that power.
The press conference is a well-established forum in which that interaction can take place, and the so-called ‘stand-up’ has a particular role in literally putting politicians (and others) on the spot. Unlike an individual journalist’s one-to-one interview, press conferences have the collective force of multiple interrogators, each approaching the subject from a different angle. Both forms of interactions, of course, have their place and both serve the same purpose – the eliciting of information.
What has no place in this process is the interloper with an ulterior motive. In this case, it was a performer whose sole interest seems to have been to shout his own viewpoint at the architect of a policy that did not meet with his approval.
I am no fan of Mr Seymour’s Bill, but I defend his right to conduct a press conference without that sort of interference. The same right is shared by all politicians irrespective of party and by those who, through position or circumstance, are in the public eye.
Williams’ gatecrashing has sent a signal to others that here is an opportunity to exploit: Dress up, hold a microphone, and you have a ready-made stage.
Bursting into a press conference is nothing new. Banner-waving activists have done it. So, too, have people who want to stand beside the subject to either support or refute his or her views.
What Williams did is different. He posed as a genuine journalist and was standing in the media pack when questioning began. This gave him credentials and access. However, he used that position not to elicit information but to interject. It was a flagrant misuse of the occasion.
So, who is a “genuine journalist”? There are at least two ways of answering that question.
The first is by defining what journalism is. I admire the simple clarity of the definition by communications theorist, the late Denis McQuail: “Journalism is the construction and publication of accounts of contemporary events, persons, or circumstances of public significance or interest, based on information acquired from reliable sources.” To me, the important distinction here is “information acquired from reliable sources”. Every word is vital to defining the role of the journalist and explicitly excludes those who simply foist their own opinions on an unsuspecting public.
The second is by determining whether the person in question practices journalism (as McQuail defines it) for a media outlet that is subject to a code of ethics. This usually means that, either by law or through voluntary membership, the outlet is subject to oversight by either or both of New Zealand’s regulatory bodies – the Broadcasting Standards Authority and the Media Council. Where a person operates outside one of those regulated outlets, she or he needs to adhere to the principles that are embodied in their codes and standards in order to qualify as a “genuine journalist”.
Journalists, of course, are not the only people who can and should produce material published by media outlets. We should not, however, confuse contribution and journalism.
We already impose restrictions to ensure that journalism is practiced within defined ethical boundaries in our principal civic institutions. Only people who can prove they work for an organisation bound by a code of ethics – usually the BSA or Media Council – can report court proceedings without specific permission from a judge. Membership of the Parliamentary Press Gallery requires accreditation by the Speaker and upholding journalistic standards.
I have always felt uncomfortable with the concept of registering journalists. The very phrase causes echoes in my head of John Milton’s Areopagitica – an impassioned 17th century argument against licensing of the presses that warned about the injury that restriction inflicts on truth.
Nonetheless, the ease with which Guy Williams insinuated himself into a press conference with the man who will soon become Deputy Prime Minister – and the example it provides for other (and perhaps less benign) individuals – suggests that maybe all “genuine journalists” should carry a standard industry-issued version of what, in my reporting days, was called a press card. Flashed on arrival it would be the admission ticket to a press conference. A comedian flashing a card from Equity New Zealand (the performers’ union) should be denied entry.
Happy birthday
Last weekend The Post celebrated its 160th birthday.
One might be forgiven for seeing some comparison with the three new heads and two new handles of ‘Captain Cook’s axe’. Founded by Henry Blundell in 1865, afternoon publication of the Evening Post ended in 2002 and merger with its morning stablemate produced the Dominion-Post. The removal of that dirty word ‘dominion’ gave us the morning paper, The Post in 2023.
But, irrespective of whether it hit the streets evening or morning, let’s celebrate a publication that has loyally served the Wellington region, and which is, after all, the senior publication (beating the Dominion by more than four decades). In fact, it has always been “The Post”. The name did not disappear from the public mind with the merger. It simply became “the Dom-Post”. Now it is “The Post” again.
Those of us who subscribe to The Post receive a regular emailed newsletter from the editor, Tracy Watkins. As one would expect, the latest newsletter celebrated the birthday. It is worth repeating because it acknowledges that a newspaper is not just headlines and bylines.
Today, we’re celebrating a very special milestone, 160 years reporting from the Capital. It’s much more than a date in the calendar; it represents 160 years of covering and reporting on some of the biggest stories in our history. Standing behind me is a long and proud list of names; former editors, journalists, photographers, cartoonists, and of course all the back office people who keep things ticking over – the receptionists who are so good at calming down angry readers after a crossword malfunction they should have been hostage negotiators; the finance people who have to make sense of the haphazard pile of receipts dumped in their laps after a reporter gets back from a long assignment, and the cleaners, who know not to throw away any random piece of paper. I offer up a prayer of thanks daily, meanwhile, to all the sub-editors, and production staff who pick up the clangers before they hit the front page. Who else? Our readers, of course. Without you, we wouldn’t be here. You deliver us brickbats and bouquets in equal measure, and you keep us on our toes.
I was going to say “Many happy returns” but, given that “returns” are the papers you don’t sell, I’ll simply wish The Post “Happy birthday”.
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