Not only does the Climate Change Ghetto mean I earn less money than I used to but it also means that every day I get bags and bags of hate mail (well, the electronic version thereof: emails or Tweets) from strangers, and almost-strangers, and even friends telling me how loathsome I am.
One Tweet that particularly hurt me the other day was from Caitlin Moran. I like and admire Caitlin, a lot. We have loads of mutual friends; she took me out for an evening’s drinking once and we had a reasonably fun time together; plus, of course, she’s unquestionably one of the funniest, most fluent journalists of her generation.
Caitlin’s speciality – in so far as she has one – is pop culture. No one writes better about the immeasurably trivial. And I mean that as no criticism. A journalist’s first duty is to be read. A journalist you’re dying to read no matter what topic they turn their hand to – even if it’s trash TV programmes you’ve never watched or girlie fashion issues you wouldn’t, as a rule, be remotely interested in – is a mighty journalist indeed. On TV, fashion, music, social mores, celebrities, food, drink, sex and so on, there’s really no other writer who can touch her.