Greetings, comrades. Hannah Betts here. Welcome to my home on Substack.
I know, I know, another Fleet-Street hack making a move on this free-spirited idyll. I’ve been loitering as a reader for years. Now I want to stop lurking and start living the Substack dream.
Why? First and foremost, community: a posse that wants to read, think and respond - not threaten to burn me at the stake for writing something it doesn’t agree with (not an exaggeration, alas). I want to say things I’d never be commissioned to say in print, in ways I wouldn't be allowed to say them. And I want to hear what you’re thinking, reading and doing. I’ll give you my obsessions, you trade me yours.
I’m calling my base here The Shit. That is, The Shit as in “good”: something considered excellent, or the best of its kind. But, also The Shit as in: “shit gets real”. Forget “spill the tea,” we’re here to dish the shit. This is a community in which we can share our shit, because shit happens, then hits the fan. Shitstorms descend, forcing us to do the shit, and get shit done.
So who am I?
Good question.
The CV- type approach: I am an award-winning, British journalist, in print since 1998, before which I was a (very) junior academic. I’m a generalist, writing features, columns and interviews across a range of subjects for an array of newspapers and magazines. I’m a regular in The Times, The Telegraph and The Mail. I also appear in international publications such as Air Mail, and am a frequent radio guest. You may recall my turn on Danny Robins’ hit BBC podcast Uncanny.
The less CV-like take: I am a knackered, midlife, freelancer with menopause envy (I’m counting the seconds until the whole thing stops). A grammar-school girl from Birmingham, I’m a lifelong rebel, diehard feminist and atheist. I’m also a closet introvert, a depressive and a sober alcoholic. Lest this sound Debbie Downer, I refuse to ignore the gags in any of these situations. Gags are life.
I live with my boyfriend of ten years, whom I met aged 43, after several spectacular years single. (Much to discuss here.) We live in sunny South London with our media whippet, Pimlico, the love of my not-so-young life. Terence isn’t a journalist, although we did co-write a couple column for The Telegraph, the poor sod. We’re opposites still just about managing to attract.
My reasons for staggering on include dogs, books, portraiture, scent, silk scarves and history geekery; my favourite periods being the 1590s and the 1180s BC. When not at my desk, find me in the National Portrait Gallery, the British Museum, or Liberty’s button department.
My writing covers all aspects of the zeitgeist, in its major and minor forms. We’re talking feminism, social and sexual mores, mental health, royalty, the arts, literature, history and fashion. Recent topics have been financial therapy for The Times, sex in long-term relationships for Grazia, how to concoct Bridgerton-style highlighter for The Mail, and why Taylor Swift is Bob Dylan in a catsuit (pending for you good people).
Past interview subjects have included a constellation of film stars, Margaret Atwood, Jean-Paul Gaultier, Jean-Paul Guerlain and Mona Hatoum. In the pursuit of investigative journalism, I have played the part of Marie Antoinette, Scarlett O’Hara, a Victorian servant, lighthouse-keeper, dairy farmer, Arctic explorer, red-carpet celebrity, naked diner and ferret handler.
In 2019, I was awarded a President’s Medal by the Royal College of Psychiatrists for improving the lives of people with mental illness through my journalism. The daughter and granddaughter of a psychiatrist, nothing could have given me more joy.
What can you expect here?
I adore being a Substack reader, now I’d like to join its community of writers. The key word here being “community”.
I love print - always have, always will. However, some aspects of producing it are exhausting. I’m sick of the personal attacks, the rape threats. I once penned a jolly piece about the brilliance of some computer game. The response? That I be gang-raped to death using my own severed limbs, one of which should be forced into my mouth to silence me. Disagree with me – please, I live to learn - but let’s be human beings in the process.
Being part of a community equals sanity. The internet has brought us like-minded individuals from all over the globe. I’ve had readers from Australia tell me I saved their lives through my writing. I don’t say this by way of bragging: it’s as humbling as it is terrifying as it is utterly brilliant. Technology has given us reach – and the potential to be responsive. Tell me what you want me to write, what isn’t being addressed and what should be.
As in my print journalism, The Shit will feature anything and everything. Think of it as a virtual version of the type of newspaper and magazine stuff I write. There will be news-related topics, books, mental health and relationship thoughts. I’ll include some style, sober reflections, beauty recs, travel thoughts, plus the occasional restaurant, recipe, and food tip. I’ll also be adding the odd photograph, not entirely confined to hats and dogs. And I’d love you to come and join me.
How will this work, then?
FREE SUBSCRIBERS
Once a month, free subscribers will receive one of my articles delivered to their inbox. You will also be sent previews of my paid-for pieces so you can decide before coughing up.
PAID SUBSCRIBERS: £8 A MONTH/£80 A YEAR, 50% OFF INTRODUCTORY OFFER (ENDS 31/08/2024)
Support me financially and I will be forever in your debt – and able to create The Shit as a place to read, reflect, respond and generally hang out; a club where everyone’s invited.
As a paid subscriber, you’ll receive weekly articles – posted every Monday morning - and the ability to be part of The Shit. This means you can comment on all my posts, start and steer the conversation. This is where you can share your shit.
There will be subscriber-only make-up and fashion steers from my side-hustles as a beauty and style columnist, and you will have access to the archive. I’ll also host weekly threads, a virtual zone in which we can dish the shit. And, who knows, there may be the odd shit event, shit meet-ups, shit merch? Watch this space.
FOUNDING SUBSCRIBERS: £250-a-year
There will be a limited number of founding memberships available, the patron-saint level of support for The Shit.
As a founding subscriber, you will receive all of the above plus email access to – and responses from – me. You will be able to shape the direction of The Shit. Simply email telling me what you’d like more of. You will receive offers and invitations before everyone else, plus sundry other perks.
GIVE THE SHIT
If you are generously inclined, you can also gift a loved one a subscription to The Shit.
SHARE THE SHIT
Finally, if you know anyone who might enjoy being here, then please do share this page far and wide. Helping me spread the word in these early days would be beyond generous. In fact, it would be the shit.
