The Big Read: Monkeying about with news
The other day I sat watching a small troop of baboons, and it got me thinking about journalists and editors who write clickbait headlines.
The apes were resting in the shade after a long morning of babooning. A couple of pre-teens threw themselves around in a tree, a Circe de Soleil version of tag, but nobody paid them any attention. It was time to relax. And that meant it was time to groom.
At first, their touch seemed casual and mechanical. Fingers poked around in fur, fishing out critters and seeds that were popped into mouths with unthinking haste. But as it went on and on, as repetitive and lightly engaged as a meditation, it revealed its true purpose. This wasn't a group of apes pulling ticks off each other. This was a clan, affirming its togetherness. Long after they'd picked one another clean, they continued to touch and stroke, to tease out tangles, to part fur, earnestly and carefully, that they had already combed. They soothed and reassured.
There is a delightful theory, most famously presented by evolutionary psychologist Robin Dunbar, that suggests human language evolved from these sorts of grooming sessions. Even more pleasingly, the theory suggests that we still get together to stroke each other's fur.
I'm not allowed to go up to a colleague and start scratching around in their hair. I'm definitely not allowed to root around in their ears and nostrils and eat whatever I find. But I am allowed to do something else with members of my clan that strengthens our bond, that affirms my place in the group and that reminds us all of those we can trust and those we can't. I am allowed to gossip.
Gossip, Dunbar suggests, is simply what happens when apes learn to speak. And it is inextricably bound up with who we are. Gossip has been damned by religious texts; condemned as "womanly" by patriarchal systems; dismissed as stupid by intellectual snobs; but still it thrives. And that's because it feeds and delights a part of us that is older than the oldest religious text or puritanical government: our sociable and curious monkey soul.
Which brings me back to clickbait.
Recently, I've become unable to read the news.
I want to. Well, I feel compelled to, which is the 21st-century version of wanting something. I even make it through the headline and some of the first paragraph. But then I stop because it suddenly feels like I might have to hurry to the toilet and regurgitate a long column of pulpy, print-smeared newspaper.
Concerned that I was being unreasonably fragile, I ran an informal poll on social media, asking my fellow sufferers on Facebook and Twitter for their emotional response to the news these days. The response was overwhelming. Given the options "I can't get enough", "It's satisfying", "I can't take it or leave it", and "I can't stand it any more", almost 60% replied that they, like me, couldn't stand it any more. When I asked that gloomy demographic if they consumed the news anyway, almost 70% answered, "Yes, I can't stop."
I know this poll was unscientific and prone to all sorts of biases. The few hundred people who replied were also a self-selecting group: I ran it on a Sunday night, the natural habitat of grumpy internet addicts who know they should be reading a book or going to bed but are instead sitting on Facebook and Twitter. But I don't think I'm wrong to suggest that more and more people - perhaps most - are feeling soul-sick when confronted with the day's headlines.
Clickbait is lazy and insulting. It has convinced many people that media are being hollowed out by shills. But if most people are being flooded with bad feelings when they engage with news, I can understand why you'd stop appealing to their critical faculties and go straight for their monkey soul. If people can't stomach facts any more, or are losing faith in them, why not offer them fact that looks like gossip - an invitation to groom?
I'm not suggesting that we abolish journalism and turn the great newspapers into pictures of listicles on Instagram. But our relationship with facts and the media that present them is creaking, and editors who believe in facts must adapt.
Baboons might be a good place to start, reminding us that grooming isn't about finding ticks, just as gossip isn't about sharing information. We don't compulsively follow the news because we want to know what's happening in the US or Syria. We follow it because we need to touch and be touched by other apes.
If Dunbar is right, our words evolved from gentle, patient fingers in fur. But if they evolve so far that they forget their origins - if they lose their power to bond people together - then what use are they?