In the realm of journalism, a fundamental principle emphasizes the importance of getting to the point quickly when conveying significant information. Therefore, I must inform you that this marks my final column for the Guardian. I spent considerable time contemplating how to approach this farewell piece. Initially, I considered focusing on the lessons I’ve learned during my time here, as that would certainly make for a more concise column than delving into the numerous lessons that continue to elude me despite repeated mistakes. For instance, I’ve learned that if you have a great joke, it’s best to place it at the beginning. (So, why is there no joke in this introduction?)
Another realization is that while readers often appreciate humorous teasing, it can become intolerable when it touches on something they care about. I recall a time when I wrote, “Arguing on the internet is akin to playing real tennis: even if you win, you’re still a jerk.” This prompted a swift response from a member of the Cambridge University real tennis club, which was published under the headline, “Real tennis has been unfairly slandered by this remark,” and began with: “As a regular Guardian reader, I have always enjoyed Marina Hyde’s sharp and witty commentaries. However…” Interestingly, I shared this anecdote at a book signing, where a young woman approached me to get a book signed for her father, Jeremy. She casually mentioned, “He’s the one who wrote in from the Cambridge University real tennis club.” It’s a small world indeed. To Jeremy and all the other readers who have reached out over the years, I’d like to clarify that the true jerks are the racket players.
Ultimately, this column serves primarily as an expression of gratitude. Throughout my time at the Guardian, I’ve had the opportunity to cover a wide range of events—from World Cups to Olympic Games and even 47 general elections. However, my recent years have been spent in the Opinion section, where I owe a debt of appreciation to the dedicated team behind the scenes. I’ve aimed to be the most agreeable columnist to work with—though that may be a tall order. Columnists are often labeled as one of the more challenging demographics in journalism, and that reputation is well-deserved. I’ve made an effort to limit my input into the editorial process, but I must admit that I’ve essentially repeated three key phrases to the Opinion desk: 1. “What’s the harm if it’s in poor taste?” (I still stand by this one.) 2. “It’s not offensive; rather, you’ve confused the subject of the joke with its object.” (I acknowledge this is rather obnoxious, and I sincerely apologize.) And 3. the ever-familiar, “Why have you titled this to make me look like a—”, followed by a term that, even in the Guardian, is only acceptable in quoted speech.
The incredible editors and sub-editors have handled all of this with remarkable patience and grace. While I can’t speak to what they’ve said after our conversations, they certainly had every right to express their thoughts.
While a retrospective might not be necessary, I will note that my journey at the Guardian began with a lively start on the Diary column. Shortly after joining, I was tasked with photographing a one-off puppet of Osama bin Laden, created by the team behind Spitting Image, on the steps of the French embassy in London. The puppet, however, was holding a toy AK-47, and just as I positioned it against the embassy door for the shot, the door swung open, and security pulled me inside. The situation escalated quickly, resulting in the arrival of ten police cars and five motorcycles, effectively bringing Knightsbridge to a standstill.
Again, I ask: why did we do this? The rationale behind such stunts has faded from my memory. Like many antics once executed by newspapers, it made sense within the specific news cycle but seems absurd when viewed retrospectively. Nevertheless, over two decades later, I extend my thanks to the various police forces involved—the French, the Metropolitan, and the diplomatic services—for choosing not to pursue charges, as that would have undoubtedly complicated my career.
As time progressed, the chaotic nature of old Fleet Street evolved into the equally unpredictable digital landscape we navigate today. One of the strange aspects of social media has been observing which celebrities share my columns. A standout moment was when I wrote about a new ITV show featuring Rob Lowe as a police chief in Brexit Britain. In the column, I revisited an incident from 1988, when Rob campaigned for Michael Dukakis at the Democratic National Convention and found himself in a scandalous situation. I recounted how my classmates and I were thrilled by the story, which suggested Rob Lowe was open to relationships with 16-year-olds. (Again, “What’s the harm if it’s in poor taste?”)
Imagine my surprise when Rob Lowe shared this particular column, especially considering his recent posts had been filled with wholesome family content. Did this imply he retained a rebellious side (which I’d like to believe, as I don’t think one can ever completely lose that aspect), or had he simply skimmed over the more controversial parts? The truth remains a mystery, and I have always found such enigmas enjoyable.
