Caution: does not contain ranting
It’s all gone horribly wrong.
I started this blog almost exactly a year ago today. A hundred entries later and I could see the way things were heading. And it wasn’t pretty. I started off, dewy of cheek and pert of ambition – a little review here, a wise askance architectural critique there (who am I kidding?). But soon, the furies set in. Every third day, like some particularly bloodthirsty character in an Icelandic saga, I’d have to spear a little (atomic) kitten or race across the lava flow, astride my trusty steed, to impale a Wag Troll.
Yes. I’d turned into one of those bloggers. And, frankly, I felt dirty.
But I was guided by the stats. A quick jab at Stevie G, a little poke at Alex (and who, in this city, hasn’t) and, I felt, I’d had a good day at Skrfit HQ. My hits went up, I got that warm glow of love and acceptance as my google stats spiked, and I could retire, sated. Spent. King of the Birkenhead bloggers. Or, at the very least, top five.
You never think it’ll happen to you. But once you’ve tasted the delicious nectar of an RT for one of your posts, it’s impossible to resist. My blog posts became like the Saw franchise. Increasingly nasty, but with precious little narrative substance.
another Sevenstreets editorial meeting
Yeah, sure, I could never be an artinliverpool, or a feeling listless. I couldn’t even hope to be a Vanilla Days or a Mark McNulty (still don’t feel completely in control of my Lumix) – but, on those halcyon days when I’d score a couple of hundred hits, I felt like Perez fucking Hilton.
But who was I fooling?
So, with a dawning realisation, it became clear to me. I had a very real choice. There comes a time when a blogger should not moan ‘what is local media doing for me?’, but, instead, stand up, stand up like a man, and holler ‘what can I do for local media?’
As it turned out, I could do nothing.
Still, I just couldn’t shake off that feeling. There had to be something else. Something better.
And so, tentative hands across the twitter event horizon led me to likeminded folk. Good folk. Honest folk. Folk you could trust with your insider information on the latest pub to get burned down in town, without them stealing it for their own site.
We shared a passion – a passion for a simple sword of justice, and a fucking interesting Liverpool website that covered the stuff we loved: art, culture, music, buildings, people, food, and stuff.
And, over long nights in the back room of the Lady of Mann, that passion grew. Sometimes we were asked to keep it down, and just once, punches were thrown, but mostly, we were allowed to celebrate our love, and draw fevered little diagrams in our moleskines.
We were nervous. Of course we were. We’d been bitten by internet meet ups too many times. But this time, it was different.
We envisaged a website that was fuelled not by rants and recriminations. That was filled not by press releases and PR bribes. That reflected the city we loved (and occasionally infuriated us) and that existed for its own sake, not just as a place to slap keywords on and beg for ad revenue.
Yes, it’s a coalition. Yes, I have to accept the occasional reference to cricket. Although, thankfully, we’re talking balls, not gowns. But that’s the idea – a collaborative effort, the full picture. Lovingly designed by Matthew Barnes, and joint edited by me and Robin Brown, Sevenstreets is a work in progress. But at least we’re on the way.
When you think your local media is bankrupt, you’ve got two options. Rant or respond.
So, with Sevenstreets, I’ve done a little quantitive easing – with a couple of friends, and we’re about to embark on an awfully exciting adventure.
But don’t worry. I’ll still be moaning on here.
Please join us on the light side. And please tell us what you think.
