I have been a poorly boy this week. Somewhere between the Lemsip and the fevered doomscrolling of a bloke struck down by an unholy strain of man flu, a revelation hit me. And not the soothing, metaphysical kind. The Book of Revelation kind.
Trumpets (and Trump-ets), beasts, AI fever dreams, Mars rockets, and the occasional false prophet with a podcast—it’s all there. But this isn’t prophecy. It’s PR. Or at least, the scorched-earth version of it.
Because let’s be honest: the virus isn’t just in my body. It’s in the body politic. It’s in our culture. And, damningly, it’s deep in the DNA of the comms industry.
Once upon a time, we believed in crafting the narrative. Shaping perception. Guiding the story arc like some benevolent puppeteer with a penchant for alliteration and a client list. But now? Now the algorithm doesn’t just eat strategy for breakfast—it livestreams it, slaps on a reaction emoji, and buries it under a thousand shouty influencers with ring lights and zero shame.
The dopamine economy has won. Rational discourse is out. Spectacle is in. Leadership has been reduced to performance art—and politics to a perpetual audition for the next viral moment. The PR world—my world—has been mugged by metrics. Outpaced by the pace itself. Style not only trumps substance, it buries it in a shallow digital grave and sells tickets to the funeral.
So where does that leave the PR soul? Adrift. Clinging to the wreckage of old-school messaging while the new gods of engagement bark louder, faster, and with a snappier hashtag.
But here’s the rub: we either evolve or get swallowed whole. Reclaim the value of judgement, not just volume. Champion nuance over noise. Fight for authenticity not as a buzzword, but as a rebellious act. Because if we don’t? We’re just crisis-managing the collapse of meaning. Polishing the brass on the Titanic’s TikTok account.
Leadership must be wrestled back from the dopamine machine. If that sounds dramatic, good. It should. Because if we don’t start demanding substance over spectacle—reality over illusion—then we’re just the comms team for the end times.
And trust me, that gig doesn’t come with a retainer.
Trumpets (and Trump-ets), beasts, AI fever dreams, Mars rockets, and the occasional false prophet with a podcast—it’s all there. But this isn’t prophecy. It’s PR. Or at least, the scorched-earth version of it.
Because let’s be honest: the virus isn’t just in my body. It’s in the body politic. It’s in our culture. And, damningly, it’s deep in the DNA of the comms industry.
Once upon a time, we believed in crafting the narrative. Shaping perception. Guiding the story arc like some benevolent puppeteer with a penchant for alliteration and a client list. But now? Now the algorithm doesn’t just eat strategy for breakfast—it livestreams it, slaps on a reaction emoji, and buries it under a thousand shouty influencers with ring lights and zero shame.
The dopamine economy has won. Rational discourse is out. Spectacle is in. Leadership has been reduced to performance art—and politics to a perpetual audition for the next viral moment. The PR world—my world—has been mugged by metrics. Outpaced by the pace itself. Style not only trumps substance, it buries it in a shallow digital grave and sells tickets to the funeral.
So where does that leave the PR soul? Adrift. Clinging to the wreckage of old-school messaging while the new gods of engagement bark louder, faster, and with a snappier hashtag.
But here’s the rub: we either evolve or get swallowed whole. Reclaim the value of judgement, not just volume. Champion nuance over noise. Fight for authenticity not as a buzzword, but as a rebellious act. Because if we don’t? We’re just crisis-managing the collapse of meaning. Polishing the brass on the Titanic’s TikTok account.
Leadership must be wrestled back from the dopamine machine. If that sounds dramatic, good. It should. Because if we don’t start demanding substance over spectacle—reality over illusion—then we’re just the comms team for the end times.
And trust me, that gig doesn’t come with a retainer.