The standards of journalism in this country are plummeting by the day, I sometimes feel. I'm not referring (only) to the abysmal levels of skill in deploying the English language (not that Maltese gets much of a better deal): this is an area in respect of which I am rapidly losing all hope.

It's other areas that are giving serious cause for concern and it is high time for some analysis of the situation, with a view to dragging us back from the edge of the abyss before we take the last step into the void.

In no particular order of importance, we have agenda-driven news reporters vying with their own so-called representatives to debase the notion of independent journalism to depths thus far unheard-of, combining with attacks on opinion writers, sometimes by journalists, other times by supposedly serious public figures, to produce a crop of writers that are in a pretty sorry state, either because their own product is poor in the extreme or because their otherwise decent product is branded as unacceptable by the people who they are subjecting to scrutiny.

Let me illustrate, because while I know what it is I'm trying to say, on re-reading the previous paragraph, I can see that the real import thereof may escape many.

Stephen Calleja, at the Independent, has of late been producing columns that are thoughtful and incisive. This doesn't mean that I agree with everything he writes, as I'm sure he doesn't agree with all of my stuff (boring world it would be if we all agreed) but thought is provoked and valid opinions aired.

What does that get him, apart from the satisfaction of knowing that his peers are respectful?

Well, on the evidence of the latest bout of rabble rousing to which John Bencini, President of the MUT descended before stalking off in a huff because the demo organised by the GWU became a touch too vulgar for his sensitive tastes, it gets him (Calleja) the distinction of being singled out for a good dose of personal invective in front of a large crowd.

I know how he feels, as does every columnist or blogger (the ones who are read, anyway) I don't recall ever being afforded the distinction of a couple of mentions during a mass-meeting (as far as I remember) but I've had letters and calls (including to my mother) inviting me to lay off, or else, and since the 'Net has opened up the world to everyone and his brother, you can see for yourself the names I and people like me get called whenever we dare to contradict the Great & the Good.

Consider, for instance, the storm of "you stupid man, you don't know anything about CONSERVATION/THEATRE/ENVIRONMENT/IMMIGRATION [delete as applicable depending on the particular brand of bigot]" comments that reside under this or my Beck column.

But you get used to this and you don't really worry about the insects.

What is worrying, though, is the more recent phenomenon of (so-called) journalists turning on their own.

There has always been a genus of journalists that has to toe the party line (literally) and oppose the opposition and in a polarised society such as ours, I suppose you have to learn to live with it.

KullHadd, a paper whose standards are of a level that I'm sure its political masters appreciate, used to get at me on a regular basis, which got so amusing that I was disappointed whenever they forgot about me.

We've gone on from this, though, and not in my regard, either.

Last week, and I made passing mention of it in my Beck column, Charlon Gouder of Super One, accompanied by a valiant cameraman, intrepidly followed Daphne Caruana Galizia and her sister pretty much down the length of Republic Street.

A handbag was waved in front of our heroes' lens and a few pointed, and unprintable, remarks were made, rendering the footage even less usable than the rank amateurishness displayed by the reporters made it.

Instead of taking it like a man, though, Charlon and his sidekick pulled one of the breathless "shock horror" pantomimes to which we have become so accustomed of late when journalists of the left are involved.

This in turn prompted that stalwart defender of journalistic freedom, the Institute of Maltese Journalists, to draw itself up to its full and imposing height and condemn the vile and vicious attack on two of its faithful members, it clearly being tantamount to attempted murder to dare to block a camera lens with a handbag and to be vulgar at someone who is sticking his mike into your face.

Oh well, as long as the Institute doesn't expect to be taken seriously by anyone with half a brain any more, I suppose that's all right.