Where is the next generation of Toby Youngs? It’s my turn to dismiss their drivel
In 1988, Weidenfeld and Nicolson published a book called The Oxford Myth. Edited by Rachel Johnson and containing essays by a variety of precocious undergraduates, it was the worst reviewed book of the year. ‘A singularly worthless volume,’ wrote Niall Ferguson in the Times. ‘Routine and uninspired,’ said William Boyd in the Sunday Telegraph. As the author of the first essay — on the subject of Class — I was singled out for criticism by almost everyone. Andrew Davies, the celebrated adaptor of literary classics for television, said it made him want to puke.
At the time, we comforted ourselves with the thought that this was just part of the hazing process. Of course we were going to get up the noses of more established writers and critics — as Emile Durkheim pointed out, generational conflict is one of the defining characteristics of the modern age. All aspiring journalists had to go through this ritual before being admitted into the fraternity. In due course, if we were lucky, we would succeed to positions of power and then it would be our turn to pour scorn on those seeking to supplant us.
Twenty years later, and that day still has not arrived. Every spring I eagerly scan the publishers’ catalogues, searching for the contemporary equivalent of The Oxford Myth, but it is nowhere to be seen. Even the broadsheets, always on the lookout for new voices, have failed to turn up any anti-establishment firebrands. Where is the next generation of young whippersnappers eager to take their place in the journalistic pantheon? Where are the new Toby Youngs whose efforts to say something witty and interesting I can dismiss as ‘sick-making drivel’? I have had to take it on the chin for what seems like an eternity and it is now my turn to start landing some punches.
One explanation for this vacuum at the bottom is that the people at the top have refused to go quietly into that good night, thereby preventing the likes of Rachel and me from moving up. After all, Niall Ferguson, William Boyd and Andrew Davies are all still there, beavering away. The upshot is that the contributors to The Oxford Myth are stuck on the first rung of the ladder and there’s no room for the next lot to take our place. If this is true, we won’t see a new generation of writers and critics until we get rid of the bedblockers.
Another possibility is that there are simply no young scribblers clamouring to get a foot in the door. These days, ambitious students seeking a career in the media are much more entrepreneurial and, as such, are unlikely to their time working on book proposals or tting articles to the broadsheets. On the ary, they’re launching websites, making documentaries and uploading videos to YouTube. In other words, the only reason there hasn’t been a coup d’état is that there’s a revolution going on. It won’t simply be the Old Guard who are swept away in a few years’ time, but the whole damn lot of us.
A third alternative is that a new generation has taken its place on Grub Street, but they are much smarter than we were and haven’t made the mistake of drawing attention to themselves. They are biding their time, gradually becoming entrenched, and when the time is ripe they will launch a power grab that will make our generation look like amateurs. We’ll wake up one morning to discover that the bedblockers are still there, but our jobs have been taken. The fifth columnists will have become columnists.
Whatever the explanation, it is jolly unfair on people like me. When I first started out in journalism, I was happy to be labelled an attention-seeking provocateur, confident in the knowledge that I would eventually become a figure of authority. But it hasn’t happened. One of the unfortunate consequences of being stuck on the first rung of the ladder is that the older generation still have you in their sights. In their eyes, I’m still a young blade who needs taking down a peg or two, even though I’m 44.
I’ve been a ‘professional irritant’ for 20 years and, frankly, I’m tired of it. Will the next generation of Bright Young Things please stand up? It is my turn to start taking potshots.
Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.
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