Omg, I worked at the Guardian at the time and remember this coming up at morning conference (a daily meeting in which we discussed the editorial matters of the day). The exchange went something like this:
Alan Rusbridger, then editor-in-chief: "Anthony: what's on the slate for arts?"
Anthony Kristgil: *silence*
Rusbridger: "Umm, Anthony?"
Kristgil: *sighs* "It's all fallen apart, boss. The Idea. I...I've fucked it."
Rusbridger, looking ruffled (he is notoriously unflappable, just look at his Snowden era interviews): "Anthony...not the...Din of History. Please. No."
(Anthony started crying at this point; all he could do was nod, meekly).
Rusbridger, rising from the conference room couch (which resembled a fluorescent yellow bubble): "Three years, Anthony. THREE YEARS THIS HAS BEEN IN THE WORKS SINCE THE INIMITABLE 'WE ARE SCIENTISTS PRESENT...' SERIES."
Anthony: "Please boss, I've got an in with Boy Kill Boy, I can try-"
Rusbridger: "STOP, ANTHONY. Just stop."
At this point Rusbridger sat back down on his squidgy citrus cushion, crunched his neck a couple of times, and moved onto the sports editor.
Kristgil was never seen in the Guardian offices again.
That's some good insight. We detected a certain ramping tension on Tony's part as successive pieces somehow(?) failed to meet his expectations, but didn't realize the column was such a big deal for higher ups at The Guardian. Thanks for the peek behind the curtain, Hayley!
"Assholes gonna asshole, and these assholes came to put the holes in some asses, if you know what I mean."
Strong words. Strong, bewildering words.
Oh, you don't know the phrase "assholes gonna asshole"?
I laughed so loudly at that piece that my poor girlfriend had to tell me to be quiet.
F*ckin’ classic!
Hahahaha... wow. Nice work, fellas.
Omg, I worked at the Guardian at the time and remember this coming up at morning conference (a daily meeting in which we discussed the editorial matters of the day). The exchange went something like this:
Alan Rusbridger, then editor-in-chief: "Anthony: what's on the slate for arts?"
Anthony Kristgil: *silence*
Rusbridger: "Umm, Anthony?"
Kristgil: *sighs* "It's all fallen apart, boss. The Idea. I...I've fucked it."
Rusbridger, looking ruffled (he is notoriously unflappable, just look at his Snowden era interviews): "Anthony...not the...Din of History. Please. No."
(Anthony started crying at this point; all he could do was nod, meekly).
Rusbridger, rising from the conference room couch (which resembled a fluorescent yellow bubble): "Three years, Anthony. THREE YEARS THIS HAS BEEN IN THE WORKS SINCE THE INIMITABLE 'WE ARE SCIENTISTS PRESENT...' SERIES."
Anthony: "Please boss, I've got an in with Boy Kill Boy, I can try-"
Rusbridger: "STOP, ANTHONY. Just stop."
At this point Rusbridger sat back down on his squidgy citrus cushion, crunched his neck a couple of times, and moved onto the sports editor.
Kristgil was never seen in the Guardian offices again.
That's some good insight. We detected a certain ramping tension on Tony's part as successive pieces somehow(?) failed to meet his expectations, but didn't realize the column was such a big deal for higher ups at The Guardian. Thanks for the peek behind the curtain, Hayley!
Any time! 🤓🗞️
Fecking brill.