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Bowie’s true genius was his generosity

There is something both comforting and pointless in the reams of articles being written following the death of David Bowie from cancer, and I am well aware that I am simply adding to the pile.

But short of the formal obituaries (and even they will be found wanting, such is the scale of their task), no single essay can grasp the breadth of the greatness of one of Britain’s foremost artists, and it would be foolish to even try to do so.

Instead we are left to sift through the remains of a staggering career to see what it is we can take into the future, and for me, it is the fact that it was Bowie’s artistic generosity that truly made him great.

Listening back to over fifty years of his music in the last 36 hours it became even more apparent – in short, he let others be brilliant, and in doing so he shone even more himself.

Possessed of a voice whose emotional power increased exponentially the closer he came to the edges of his vocal range, he was a natural solo artist, but even then he was never a man to go it alone. He always chose to include others.

At almost every point in his career, he generously allowed others not just to stand in the shadow of his vision, but to bask in its spotlight.

In the seventies it was Mick Ronson, whose slashing guitars and piercing melodies were a counterpoint to Bowie’s decadent alien rock star persona.

Later in that decade he entrusted the mixing board to Brian Eno, not just allowing him to twiddle the knobs but to introduce the full spectrum of his knowledge of electronica and technology.

He was no stranger to the other side of the console either, producing seminal and wildly different works by Lou Reed and Iggy Pop and making them musically immortal in the process.

And in 1981 there was the remarkable collaboration with Queen that produced Under Pressure, an instant classic powered by a simple bass riff, a watertight rhythm section and a surprisingly complex arrangement layered on top.

Perhaps inspired by that rhythmic success, he allowed the riffing of Nile Rodgers and the thundering drumming of Tony Thompson to take centre stage for Let’s Dance.

And when Bowie turned his back on commercial success and formed Tin Machine, he turned to Reese Garbels, a breathtaking versatile guitarist; while the albums may not have been great, one can never doubt the artistic ambition.

Even Ricky Gervais was allowed to bask in the glow of his brilliance – the Extras clip of Bowie’s jam about his character is funny, but it would be far less so if it wasn’t for Gervais’s superb reacting.

But for me the defining moment of Bowie’s artistic generosity was etched in eternity at the Point Depot in my hometown of Dublin during the recording of A Reality Tour that ultimately became a live album and film.

Amid the hi-hats and finger-clicking of the intro, you can hear him say “go girl” as he hands proceedings over to bassist and vocalist Gail Ann Dorsey for Under Pressure.

Many other artists would be loathe to share the limelight with a mere sidewoman or backing musician, and those with less courage would choose the safety of faithfully recreating the original over trying something new.

But given that he started out in free jazz, it’s hardly surprising that Bowie gives her the room and space to express herself. They perform the duet as equals, and in fact they had done so many times since she joined his band in 1995.

What follows is amazing – so much so that one almost forgets that it was Freddie Mercury who made the song famous with Bowie, and not Dorsey, such is the power of her performance.

A hugely accomplished session musician and artist in her own right, she has perhaps never gotten the recognition her talent deserves outside of the circles of professional music and Bowie fans.

But during that duet there is no doubt that her star matches that of Bowie.

And if there is one tiny thing that I can take with me from a half-century of his work, it is that – we should never be afraid to collaborate, to allow others to have their moment, to listen to ideas that we might otherwise not hear.

It is that generosity of spirit that makes the difference between achieving something alone – in art, in sport, in business, in life – and doing something valuable and memorable together that resonates with others.

If you’re in any doubt, listen to Bowie singing with Gail Ann Dorsey again.

Love’s such an old-fashioned word
And love dares you to care for
The people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way of
Caring about ourselves
This is our last dance
This is our last dance
This is ourselves.

- Queen and David Bowie, Under Pressure



Home, God willing

The original shelter in Akalla By, where Laith and his friends were guests on the first night.

Laith has been told that I am taking him to a shelter, but I could be taking him anywhere.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone told him he was headed somewhere, only to find himself somewhere else entirely.

Like when the people smugglers told him that he would be getting on a plane to Sweden, where he would be whisked away and given a place to live, and his family would be brought to him.

With his excellent English – learned working with the Americans as a policeman during the occupation of Baghdad – he would easily get a job.

Or so the smugglers said.

The plane was mysteriously cancelled.

Instead, he wound up in a boat packed with people, making the journey from Turkey to Greece.

The motor died.

So did some of the people.

Most panicked.

The women with children panicked more.

Laith thought it was natural. They were the ones with the most to lose.

He and some of the other strong young men tried to swim ahead and pull the boat.

Some of them died too.

So too did a little bit of Laith.

Swimming for his life and the lives of others, and those of his nine-month old child and his wife hidden in her parents’ house in Iraq, sheer pig-headedness would keep him going.

He made it.

First to Greece, then to Copenhagen and Malmö and Stockholm.

At the first shelter in Stockholm there was a disagreement over space with some Syrians.

Laith and his friends were asked to leave. When you have nothing, you protect it fiercely, even if it costs you.

Laith left and came to Akalla with his friends, where he spent the night. I drove them there.

The next day, someone else drove him back to the Central Station.

All he wanted to do was go home to Iraq, but for now he would have to keep going – to Finland, probably – until he found somewhere safe for his wife and child.

The tension – especially when strengthened by the lack of a common language – when in the car with people like Laith is palpable.

They have a story to tell.

It is a story of a life left behind, with no idea when or where or if it will be picked up again.

For some, it works out OK. For others, not.

Many of them don’t want to tell that story.

Some have no choice.

Today, we closed the shelter. A few cars gathered to take the last dozen or so guests to different places.

Some headed to the Central Station, to follow Laith’s path towards Finland, the trip getting colder and darker the further north they came.

Others had given up.

Lonely for their families, told that they had little chance of being granted asylum, or just put off by the cold and the dark and exhausted by the grinding fucking drudgery of being on the run, they gave in.

Some agreed to return to a home they risked so much to leave.

This morning they would fly back there.

I drove them to the terminal.


The airport?


Let’s go!

There were more bodies than bags or suitcases. One man asked if he could have a rucksack to take with him. His friends laughed at him.

“You don’t have anything to put in it!”

The tension wasn’t as palpable on the journey to the airport, but it was still there.

At least now they knew where they were going.

But where they are going is the very reason why they left.

As they took what little they had out of the van, they convinced themselves and each other that this is what they wanted all along.

“Al-bayt, al bayt.”




God willing.


Today the last guests at the temporary shelter in Husby set up by local residents left, and the doors closed for the last time. 

Having had to move premises twice while catering for hundreds of refugees over three weeks, it is no longer possible for the shelter to carry on – the resources in terms of time and money are just not there.

The “refugee crisis”, as it has become known, will continue, and we will continue to help in any other way we can. 

This essay is dedicated to Leo Ahmed, Sonja Dousa and to everyone who gave anything during the last three weeks – all over Scandinavia, people sleep tonight on a pillow of your kindness. 

Refugee relief is not a numbers game

So far the focus of Ireland’s response has been to concentrate on how many Ireland can actually take in – this despite the elephant in the room that is direct provision – and not what will happen once they get here.

First we had Simon Coveney’s pathetic opening bid if 600.

But, like a bad poker player assumed to be bluffing, he was quickly forced to raise it to 1000.

The latest bid comes from the smouldering remains of the Labour Party, with Joan Burton apparently saying that Ireland can take 5000 refugees.

What nobody seems to be saying is what we will do with them when they arrive here.

As with everything else in Ireland, there is no long-term plan, just a knee-jerk reaction.

Whether we take in one or 100,000, we need to have a concrete plan, a process to ensure that those who do come to Ireland are given a better life than what they currently have, and not simply warehoused in direct provision – or worse still, sluiced out into a society that neither cares about them nor wants them.

I live in a suburb in northern Stockholm where I see the results of failed integration every day.

This failure is not down to those who have come here; it is down to a society that either doesn’t know what to do with them, or in many instances doesn’t want anything to do with them at all.

Last Monday evening I sat in one of Stockholm’s most classic downtown cafés with Mahad.

Mahad speaks seven languages and is a qualified doctor – two of the languages he speaks are Arabic and Somali, a pair of mother tongues that very few in the Swedish medical profession can claim to master.

When I look around the suburbs of Kista, Husby, Akalla, Rinkeby, Tensta and Hjulsta I am struck by how his skills should be a goldmine – but rather than employ him and allow him to treat patients in their own language, he is locked into a bureaucratic nightmare.

First, his credentials had to be evaluated – after a year, he was told that he must compliment them and take tests here in Sweden, despite reading the same books and carrying out the same procedures as any EU-educated doctor.

Then he must learn Swedish – he speaks it competently already but doesn’t consider himself as fluent as he is in his other seven languages – and then he must negotiate a labour market that, while seemingly open to all, is suspiciously closed to those with a similar background to his.

There is an unspoken, structural racism at work – why take the black African unknown quantity, when you can take the blonde, blue-eyed person from up the road? Okay, their qualifications and experience might not be as good, but at least you know what you’re getting…

That is Mahad’s experience at this moment, and he is just one of many that Sweden has failed to integrate.

I see it in journalism too – white, middle-class people populating the press boxes and the press conferences, asking questions in white, middle-class tones about issues that affect white, middle-class lives.

A brown face with a microphone is perceived as an uppity outsider, rather than a breath of fresh air – Sweden tends to avoid conflict, so the critical voices of brown people are silenced by simply not inviting to the party in the first place.

And then, to add insult to injury, when they can’t find a job, we call them lazy and use them as a reason not to offer sanctuary to others.

The vicious circle is complete.

Time and again last Monday night, Mahad stressed to me that he doesn’t want handouts from the state – he is grateful for what he has been given, but he simply wants to be allowed to practice his profession, contribute to society and have a dignified life in a country that is safe.

Ireland risks going the same way.

Have Coveney or Burton or anyone else in the Irish government considered exactly how they are going to help refugees into Irish society?

How will they learn the English language? How will they be exposed to Ireland’s customs and culture?

How will they learn about hurling and craic and dodging responsibility for everything, the three core things all Irish people hold dear?

How will they be integrated into a labour market destroyed by the economic collapse and further fragmented by the free labour scam that is Jobbridge?

Unfortunately for our politicians, refugees are not simply there to be taken in to  score compassionate political points for parties who have shown no compassion for their voters.

They have needs and wants like everyone else.

It takes effort. It takes compassion. And in the short and medium term, it takes money too.

In many cases – such as my friend and team-mate Hashem, whose mother was killed by Assad’s bombs in Damascus and who fled across the sea to Greece and then on to Sweden – they need time to heal their psychological and physical wounds.

They need support, and they need a process in place to ensure that they can once again begin to live their lives with the dignity that they have been robbed of in their home countries.

Lurking, as always, in the background, are the racists who will pounce on any opportunity to spew bile on those born abroad.

You only have to look at the Facebook page of Identity Ireland (who claim to be a political party and have launched as such, but are so inept that they haven’t managed to register) to see how the spores of hatred flower in the darkness.

If we fail to integrate Mahad and Hashem properly and instead force them into the lower socio-economic echelons of society, we are creating an instant conflict between them and others who battle for the meagre resources at the lower end of the scale.

This is where the visible racism occurs, but it is born of the invisible structural racism – and indeed the destruction of any protection offered in our labour market – that has happened long before they even got here.

Citizens of the EU have already spoken by their actions, welcoming refugees and insisting our politicians do more.

But these people have been failed by their own countries and we owe it to them not to fail them again.

We owe it to them to offer a life that is better than a Jordanian or Kenyan refugee camp.

Whether one or 100,000 come, we owe it to them to offer them a chance of a life that we ourselves would want to lead.


For your betters, brow-beating beats being there

“I threw a brick through a window…”

Today the column inches will stretch to feet, yards, miles – infinitely longer than a single water balloon or brick can fly. The airwaves will crackle.

There will be news, there will be comment, there will be analysis on the collapse of democracy that occurred at the anti-water charge protest that hindered Joan Burton’s car in Jobstown at the weekend.

Despite their fleeting appearances, the brick and the water balloon will feature heavily.

Just one question to all of those breathless hacks painting dark pictures of the End of Days, caused by a violent mob of working and non-working class people in a Dublin suburb.

How many of you were actually there?

Because if you’re going to pontificate about the death of Irish democracy for thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of readers or listeners, then I expect you to have dropped everything and headed for Jobstown.

It’s not that hard to find. There are busses, and failing that the taxi company on your speed dial will take you there swiftly.

But such is the laziness and insular nature of the long-distance columnist that it is easier to make pious declarations about democracy from a safe distance rather than take the risk of talking to people for whom “th” in any word is an optional extra.

In truth, there is no need for any journalistic foundation to a column about certain areas of the country – after all, what are they going to do? Complain?

But for me the front line is the only place to start.

Because if I see a man throwing a brick, my instinct is not to ascribe a motive to him, or to find out what a well-to-do person in Dublin 6 thinks.

My instinct is to ask him why.

Then my instinct would be to find out if he is representative of the greater mass of people.

And my instinct is, in this case, that he wasn’t.

If I was in Jobstown, the ultimate journalistic bounty that day would have been an interview with the brick-thrower – after all, who better to explain his actions than the man himself?

I’d ask him how he felt.

I’d ask him what he thought of the fact that his brick was likely to do more damage to the peaceful protestors than it ever was to the Garda car he aimed at.

I’d ask him if his slip as he made his getaway was a fitting metaphor for something else.

But based on his actions, the instinct of virtually everyone else in Irish media this weekend seems to have been to scream “MOB!!” and write long, pretentious articles about democracy that are completely without any sense of nuance, understanding or first-hand experience of the situation.

But that’s OK, because what are they going to do? Complain?

Write a letter to the editor that will never be published?

Call the radio show that screens out exactly the prevalent accent used in that part of the city?

During the riots here in Stockholm last year, more people were injured in the rush to condemn the violence than were ever in danger from the riots themselves.

Such condemnation serves nothing but the ego of the politician or journalist already well-served by the democracy they claim to be upholding – the one that depends on the votes and the purchases of working-class people, and then abandons them as soon as power is secured.

The kind of people who live in places like Jobstown, Neilstown, Coolock, Ballymun and Darndale.

The kind of people who voted for Joan Burton – who sat in that car – and then saw her completely betray the mandate they had given her.

If you want a real story about the collapse of democracy, it was sitting in the car, not rocking it or shouting at it.

That story is how an unelected four-person “economic management council” has, with the support and full active participation of Labour, set aside Ireland’s parliamentary democracy until further notice.

No, the only thing that ran riot in Dublin yesterday was the middle-class sensibilities of journalists and politicians confronted by the dawning realisation that it is too late, and the proles have had enough.

For the hacks, there is no point back-pedalling now.

So do not start with your own answers and then tailor the facts to fit, as currently seems to be best practice at the Irish Water Meter and on Water Meter FM.

Instead, put aside your pointless pontificating, go back to your basic journalistic training and ask the five Ws and one H that we all learned on our first day in class.

And of all those questions you should be asking, right now “why?” is the most important.

And from what I’ve seen in this morning’s papers and online, not one of you has asked it yet.

Hunt-ing Roma in Waterford

Sweden Democrats 2014 election poster – to the left, it says “Time to stop the organised begging on our streets.”

So the Sunday Independent makes a predictable defence of the racist mob that targeted Roma homes in Waterford last week.

I’m not going to bother picking apart Carol’s arguments here – instead, I am going to tell you about a story I’m working on which illustrates how dangerous such writing can be.

In the summer of 2014 Vasile Zamfir came to Stockholm from Romania to collect the remains of his father, who had died of a heart attack while in Sweden, to bring his coffin home to be buried.

He was one of hundreds of Roma in the city, many of whom have made their way to Sweden to beg on the streets. He had a son with Downs Syndrome in Romania, and the money he and others collected – usually around €10 a day – was saved and brought home.

Like most of the Roma currently in Sweden, Vasile lived together with a group of others in a temporary camp, made up of lean-to shacks and tents.

Despite Sweden’s liberal reputation, the Roma aren’t popular with a lot of people, and the standard accusations are levelled at them.

They only come here for the social welfare (they are not entitled to social welfare), they are criminals, they are part of an organised begging ring (neither charities nor authorities have found any evidence to support this claim) and so on.

The wilder stories tell of them being dropped off in the morning in shiny BMWs and Mercedes, pictures of handicapped children handed out to increase their takings from the gullible Swedes.

I have followed these people, and I have never seen any evidence of the above.

But that didn’t stop the Sweden Democrats – a far-right party founded by neo-Nazis in 1988 – from printing up election posters about banning “organised begging”.

The internet went one step further.

“The beggars’ camp should be torn down, burned or blown to fuck. Preferably with the beggars hanging upside down. Hypothetical thoughts, but…” was one contribution to the debate.

“Stones, knives, petrol bombs, or Kalashinikov, makes no difference when our elected representatives haven’t the guts to take the step to free us from this modern plague, I will applaud each and everyone who contributes so we avoid seeing these people, who deliberately dress in rags and try to profit from the innate goodness of us Swedes,” was another.

Everywhere, there were well-meaning columns written – surely it can’t be racist to question why they are here, or why they are unemployed? And for every column written by a well-meaning, well-to-do journalist, the stakes for the Roma went up.

At 4am on the warm summer night that was August 31, and luckily for most of his friends, one of the residents of Vasile’s camp got up to urinate.

He saw how flames quickly spread across the roofs of the shacks that housed 17 people in Högdalen.

In the beginning there was no smoke – as there would have been if a cigarette butt had smouldered and set light to timber, for example – which led many of the residents to believe that the fire was started deliberately using a flammable liquid.

Vasile Zamfir och Codrut Kalanyos were trapped in their shack. Codrut survived but was badly injured.

Police and the fire brigade came, but the scene was not secured until seven hours later, making it almost impossible to conduct a proper investigation into what caused the fire. Many witnesses were never interviewed.

Vasile died in a Swedish hospital from injuries sustained in a fire that many believe was started deliberately, with the sole purpose of driving the Roma out of the area and out of Sweden – pretty much the same goal as the marchers in Waterford last Saturday night who broke windows and terrorised women and children.

He came to Sweden to collect the remains of his father, and instead he too now lies in the ground in Romania.

In your article Carol – which, incidentally, repeats a slew of favoured modern racist tropes, from Roma criminality to the invoking of Rotherham to permit any form of wild unfounded accusation – you refer to last week’s pogrom and ask the following question:


All of that is disgusting, horribly, criminally wrong.

But do I really need to say that? Isn’t it self-evident? 

The answer is very simple. As long as mobs feel that they can take the law into their own hands and go smashing the windows of families because of their ethnicity – yes, you do. Loudly and clearly, and without going on to legitimise such actions in the next paragraph.

Because your questioning of the Roma, your oblique references to the “moral failure” of their culture (whatever that may be), and your failure to understand that their difficulties are caused not by their ethnicity but by their marginalisation and poverty, legitimises real racism like the marching mobs of Waterford.

And it provides the fuel for the fires of these mobs who believe that they can burn out anyone they choose.

Ge oss bättre spelare, inte färre lag

Henok Goitom: lärde sig inte från koner

Jag har följt Allsvenskan ändå sen jag flyttade till Sverige 1999.

De senaste sex åren har det varit min uppgift att bevaka den, tillsammans med Danmarks Superligaen och Norges Tippeligaen, åt en av värdelens största nyhetsbyråer.

Och lösningen till Allsvenskans bristande kvalité är inte mindre lag – det är att utveckla bättre spelare.

Att ta bort två eller fyra eller sex lag gör inte den genomsnittliga allsvenska fotbollsspelaren bättre. Snarare begränsar det chansen för denne att blomstra eftersom det blir färre och färre platformer att glänsa på.

Gör vi det accepterar vi att vi inte kan producera fotbollsspelare längre. Det vore trist.

Att höja kvalitén på Allsvenskan och för den delen i landslaget handlar snarare om att göra om allt i svensk fotboll från grunden.

I några decennier har man konkurrerat på fysiken och attityden och en arbetsmoral som håller svensken borta från sprit och dumheter.

Det räcker inte längre.

För en modern toppspelare krävs allt detta plus en strålande teknik och beslutsfattningsförmåga.

Det får man inte från att springa mellan koner med en boll några kvällar i veckan, eller än sämre utan boll i långa, meningslösa fyspass för ungdomar.

Det finns inga koner på plan i Allsvenskan, eller Premier League, eller La Liga. När du ska tackla Cristiano Ronaldo eller gör mål på David De Gea finns det inte en kona i världen som kan hjälpa dig.

Vi måste tänka om från grunden om hur vi utbildar och utvecklar våra talanger och från vilka utgångsvärderingar.

Vi måste fråga hur man bäst lär sig att spela fotboll och att lösa de problem som uppstår på banan.

Det vi kommer att komma fram till är att de spelarna som båda drar publik och som ligger längst fram tekniskt – Zlatan, Henok Goitom, Imad Zatara, David Accam för att nämna några som har glänst i Allsvenskan – är de som spelade kopiöst mycket spontanfotboll som barn, och det nästan helt utan ingripande från vuxna.

Där är det gårdens regler som gäller och gallringen av ungdomar så älskade av de idiotiska  ”elitsatsningar” som finns i vissa klubbar sker på ett naturligt sätt – löser du inte problem på banan blir ditt lag slagen och du får vänta på din nästa chans.

Intelligens och teknik belönas när det kopplas till styrka, uthållighet och vilja.

Det blir färre och färre svenska spelarna i de stora klubbarna utomlands därför att vi producerar spelare som är lagom och inte mer.

De duger som utfyllnad i proffstrupper och gör inte så mycket väsen av sig.

De är pålitliga. Starka. Dugliga. Men knappast stjärnor och sällan de som får publiken att ställa sig upp och vråla.

En handfull sticker förstås ut men inget jämfört med vad det borde eller kunde vara.

Att banta Allsvenskan från 16 lag till 12 skulle bara dölja problemet istället för lösa det. Vi måste istället glömma allt vi tror oss veta om hur ungdomar lär sig spela fotboll. Sen måste vi våga låta de lär sig i sin egen takt.

När vi väl har gjort det kommer vi att ha en ny generation svenska spelare som den allsvenska publiken är beredda att betala för att se och som är attraktiva för utländska klubbar.

Och när vi ändå håller på kan vi sänka biljettpriserna så att ungdomar har råd att gå på fotboll.

Det finns inget lika motiverande som att stå på läktaren och se en kille från din ort avgöra en match. Då tänker man: ”Jag vill vara som honom.”

Vi måste helt enkelt riva upp varje marknadsföringsprognos och coachningsmanual som existerar och börja om där den bästa med fotbollen alltid börjar.

På läktaren. På gården. På gatan.

Bara då kommer svensk fotboll att må bra igen.

Missing the bigger picture as AP fires freelancer

The original photograph (top) and the manipulated version.

This week the Associated Press dispensed – rightly – with the services of freelance photographer Narciso Contreras, who used software to remove a colleague’s video camera from an image he took in Syria.

What Contreras did was wrong. The value of press photography is embedded entirely in its integrity – we have to know what these images represent is the truth.

In this one instance, Contreras broke that bond of trust. His punishment, while harsh, is probably justified. His career could well be destroyed.

But what is deeply unappetizing is the pontificating being done by pictures editors who are no strangers to offering photographers – even those working in war zones like Contreras – peanuts for their work.

His firing has prompted a glut of self-righteous pieces such as this one from the Guardian which makes all the right noises about integrity, but says little about how images are acquired and paid for.

Noticeably, it does not ask why Contreras – a Pulitzer prize winner – did what he did.

Since the turn of the century, the combination of modern digital cameras and the fact that many of the world’s hotspots are no-go areas for western photographers has seen the rise of the local freelancer or stringer.

It’s not unknown for an amateur who shows talent to be discovered by an agency or a news outlet.

They are then given tips – and in some cases equipment – and sent out into places where it is too dangerous for westerners to go. They are sometimes paid by the day, sometimes by the image.

It’s seldom very much. It’s usually a lot less than what a western photographer would get.

There isn’t much offered in the way of insurance  or training or counseling either.

And when the war or conflict ends, there’s not much chance of a staff job somewhere either. The news moves on. They don’t.

Contreras, from Mexico City, was working as a freelancer in Syria, essentially competing against newly-minted photographers such as those described above.

I don’t know what freelance deal Contreras had with AP, but an educated guess at the original image suggests that, as shot, it wasn’t sellable.

Contreras might not have had any other decent images that day either, and thus he may have decided that in this one instance it was worth a shot at manipulating the image in a way that is normally totally unacceptable.

After all, having spent a day on any assignment, let alone one as dangerous and as violent as Syria, a freelance photographer must have something to show for it.

It should also be pointed out that it was he himself that brought this manipulation to AP’s attention, and that no other image filed with the agency showed any signs of having been manipulated in a similar fashion.

I’m by no means accusing AP of underpaying Contreras or of putting him in danger, nor am I excusing what he did. Trying to understand something is not the same as condoning it.

What I am doing is asking the question: why did he choose to do this?

Was it because of economic necessity?

Because if it was, we have a very big problem on our hands.

Modern (and not-so-modern) media businesses are working on notoriously tight margins, and agencies and outlets are trying to get content for as little as possible.

But if that is going to be the business model, then something has to give. You cannot produce good journalism on a shoestring.

It might be that we have to accept a photographer manipulating an image, or a reporter reporting quotes and scenes he didn’t witness first-hand as if he was on the spot.

AP have deleted Contreras’ images from the public database, but the debate cannot be deleted from the public domain – how much are we (consumers, readers and agencies) willing to pay for our content?

And if that isn’t enough to compensate journalists, photographers and camera people for the risks that they take, how much are we prepared to have our news compromised as a result?


Sveriges största fotbollsnackis – men keep it under your hat…

Så här nära var Bojan att få baskern redan idag – men nej. Fotbolls-Sverige kräver att det sköts snyggare än så.

Presskonferens med Erik Hamren idag och jag var otroligt nära den scoopen som hela den svenska fotbollsmediakåren vill ha just nu.

Nämligen – hur och när kommer Bojan Djordjic att få Robert Lauls basker?

Har du varit uppe på ett berg och helt utan täckning så kanske du inte känner till det som hela fotbolls-Sverige har pratat om.

Robert tippade att Bojans Brommapojkarna skulle åka ur Allsvenskan direkt – han var så säker på sin sak att han slog ju vad om det genom att säga om BP klarade sig kvar utan att kvala – och om Bojan spelade fler matcher från start än ifjol – så skulle Robert ge honom sport-Sveriges mest välkända huvudbonad.

I söndags slog den in – men inte till Robbans fördel.

2-2 borta mot Halmstad räckte för att BP skulle klara sig utan att kvala.

Blixsnabbt började hashtaggen #skickabaskern trenda på Twitter.

Inte sedan Bojan vann SM-guld med AIK 2009 har han varit så glad på säsongens sista dag och plötsligt ville hela fotbolls-Sverige veta hur, när och var baskern skulle lämnas över.

Men sedan dess – tystnad.

Jag kan nu avslöja i bästa kvällstidnings-stil att förhandlingarna har pågått febrilt bakom kulisserna men bildbevisen finns här – Roberts älskade basker har än så länge inte lämnats över till Bojan.

Parterna har inte kunnat enas – så stor är den här frågan. Som bilden visar så var jag väldigt nära att lösa det själv idag genom att sno den och köra i hög fart hem till Bojan med bytet.

Men icke. Till skillnad från Friends Arena och 50 Cent-lurar ska det här lösas snyggt.

Jag vet hur mycket Robert älskar sin basker men han är en hederlig man – han har förlorat ett vad och han tänker lämna över den.

Bojan Djordjic är en god vän utanför fotbollen (vi är med i styrelsen för Kista Galaxy tillsammans) och en vinnarskalle rakt igenom – har han vunnit något vill han säkert få sitt pris.

Men jag hoppas att de kanske kan hitta en lösning där Robert kan behålla baskern samtidigt som Bojan blir tillfredsställd.

Det kan handla om något som ersätter baskern i vadet.

Det kan handla om att någon annan får frukten av Bojans sköna vinst.

Det kan helt enkelt handla om att Robban lämnar bara över den och därmed blir vi av med ett av fotbolls-Sveriges största och mest folkkära varumärken.

Men oavsett hur det slutar så är det viktigt för svenska fotbollens rykte att det görs på ett värdigt sätt.

Frågan är bara vem som är först ut med nyheten – Roberts Sportbladet eller Bojans Twitter-konto?

Du kan föreslå din egen lösning till ”Baskergate” på 140 tecken genom att använda hashtaggen #skickabaskern. Jag kommer att framföra de allra bästa till Bojans och Roberts representanter så att de kan tas med i förhandlingarna om hur svensk fotbolls största höstsnackis skall lösas. 

Guth – why we need a new media voice in Ireland


As soon as Gerard Cunningham suggested the idea of a new independent Irish news magazine run by journalists to me, I was onboard. And here’s why.

Modern media is a complex business where the interests of shareholders, advertisers, editors, journalists and readers seldom converge.

Decisions about what stories to cover are taken for a wide variety of reasons – many of them commercial, as evidenced by the explosion in property porn and the light-touch reporting of Ireland’s “booming” economy, which subsequently went bang.

Stories about our society that deserve much greater scrutiny get buried under reams of pointless waffle about “rugby threesomes”, reality TV shows and “tell-us-about-your-book” interviews.

Guth is an ambitious crowd-funded project that tried to address those and other concerns about what motivates Irish journalism.

By securing as much funding as possible up front from readers, the dependence on advertising is removed, allowing much greater editorial freedom in what is a cut-throat market.

Guth will allow reporters to use their news sense to bring you stories that you haven’t already heard, or a perspective you may not have thought of.

It will hopefully herald a wholesale return to top-class investigative journalism in Ireland, of sharp writing and critical thinking.

In an era where freelance fees are collapsing, it will ensure that these reporters get the resources they need to do the job properly, and avoid the amateurish mistakes that are becoming more and more prevalent as hard-pressed hacks seek to churn out low-value content to feed the media beast.

Guth is not the answer to all our prayers, but from what I’ve seen it looks like a pretty good start.

By giving you the reader a sense of ownership, the contributors want to get back to what it is journalists are supposed to do – holding people and organisations to account, instead of sustaining share prices, property markets and fevered egos.

So sign up now for as much as you can, and let’s see how loud we can make this new media voice.

The needle and the damage done

She stood across the high table from me, fidgeting in that imperceptible way that people do when trying their best to appear relaxed.

I was interviewing her because her story was the opposite of most sportspeople.

Though talented, she had never stood out for most of her career.

She was a late bloomer, and than in itself is enough to ring alarm bells. The difference was that when she bloomed – boy, did she bloom.

She went from being among the has-beens and the also-rans to being one of the stars of her sport.

There was no discernible difference in technical ability, just an explosive power and endurance added to what she said “God gave her.”

God appeared to have decided to top it up at some time in her late twenties too – and then some.

I asked the question everybody wanted the answer to – why her? Why now?

She looked at me and started to answer, looking down at the floor momentarily in the middle of it before remembering her well-rehearsed lines.

It was her diet, you see – that, and the new weights program with her new personal trainer.

You see, she hadn’t been taking care of herself properly before, and now she was doing things properly – that was the explanation.

She looked at me as if I was a teacher who’d asked her a history question, a “was that

I didn’t let it go.

“But given all that’s happened across the board in sports – surely people aren’t going to believe you?”

This time, her gaze didn’t waver.

“People can believe what they want to believe –I can’t do to change that. All I know is that I am not a cheat. I know I’m clean.”

Afterwards, I took some pictures to go with the interview. She relaxed and a beautiful smile lit up her face.

Afterwards, we looked at them in the camera together, and she asked me to send them on to her.

She reminded me of many young women – critical of her own appearance, delighted when she found a picture that made her look beautiful.

She asked me to send it to her; I did, and she thanked me for it.

A while later, closer to a major event she was to take part in, I mailed her again. She never mailed back.

A little less than two years later, she was at the pinnacle of her sport, winning the one they all set out to win.

As she collected her prize, her face beaming, I looked at the picture I’d taken on the day I’d done the interview.

Her face wasn’t the same.

The warm natural beauty was gone, replaced by a frozen mask, all teeth and tense eyes, as if waiting for someone to point a finger at her and say: “This is not yours to keep. You don’t deserve this.”

I didn’t believe her story then, and I don’t believe her now.

I believe that, rather than diet and weights, she was taking performance-enhancing drugs.

And I don’t necessarily believe that she’ll ever get caught.

But I do believe that an awful lot of sportspeople – in track, in ball sports, in cycling, in swimming, in skiing – are still telling us the same lies that she told me.

And that tells me that as long as they are prepared to take the risks and tell the lies, we’re obviously not doing enough.

We need to take the rules we have, and put them on steroids.