Media Snobbery: The Rotten Core of the Establishment Echo Chamber

Let’s cut through the polite nonsense and call it what it is: media snobbery. A deep, festering elitism that sneers at working class voices and treats real life experience as somehow less valuable than a degree from Oxbridge and a fancy vocabulary. I’ve been on the receiving end of it more times than I can count and now I’m sick of it.

I didn’t climb the greasy pole of politics. I didn’t sit in some think tank office dreaming up theories about people that I’ve never met. I run a bloody pub and I deal with the public every day. I hear what real people are angry about. And yet, for a certain class of journalist or politician, that kind of insight counts for nothing, because I don’t speak their language, because I didn’t come from their world and because I’m not one of them.

Take Nina Myskow, for example, correcting my grammar live on air, not debating my point, not challenging my argument, but sneering at the way I speak, as if the strength of what I say matters less than whether I dotted every “i” and avoided a double negative. It’s not just rude, it’s revealing and shows you exactly what many in the media class think of people like me. They see us as uneducated, beneath them, uncouth and not worthy of the same respect.

Then there’s Bill Rammell, former Labour minister and proof, if any more were needed, that the party that used to represent the working class, now treats us like a nuisance. This man, who was elected to serve ordinary people, calls me “far right” because I dared to speak about the insights I’ve gained by running my pub.

He mocked my experience and laughed at the idea that someone who actually interacts with the public, might understand them better than some career politician. The arrogance is simply breathtaking.

But it doesn’t stop there. There’s a quiet blacklisting that happens in the background. I see GB News commentators, many of whom I deeply respect, getting invited onto panel shows on mainstream channels. But not me. Why? Is it because I didn’t go to the right school? Is it because I speak plainly, without the layers of fake politeness and media training? Or is it because I say the sort of things they don’t want to hear?

The truth is, they don’t want someone who’ll speak for the bloke in the pub. They want a “safe” working class voice, someone with the right credentials who pretends to understand real life, but wouldn’t last five minutes behind a busy bar on a Friday night. They want someone who plays the game, not someone who tells inconvenient truths.

Social media? Don’t even get me started. I share opinions rooted in what I see and hear every day and I get mocked by the blue tick brigade, the same people who cheer for politicians who’ve never had a real job. I’ve had abuse, I’ve been mislabelled, and I’ve been dismissed, but I keep going because I know what I’m saying speaks for millions who’ve simply been left behind.

The irony? They say they care about “diversity of thought,” about “representing the people.” But the minute someone like me comes along, with the wrong accent and the wrong background, they roll their eyes and shut the door.

Well, tough luck. I’m not going away and I’ll keep using my platform, however small they want it to be, to speak for the many who never get a voice. You don’t have to like my grammar, my politics, or my delivery, but you will hear me — because I speak for real Brits, not the bubble.

Adam Brooks