WELCOME, media studies students! Here at Big Erik's House of Media Studies (official motto: putting the "me: a stud" in "media studies"), we pride ourselves on preparing you for an exciting career in the buzzing world of the national up-market magazine meeja.

That world is a wonderfully diverse place with opportunities for everyone from Angle to Saxon, from former public school pupil to former somewhat less prestigious public school pupil. And it will allow you to lead a life of intrigue and danger. But first you must take in its lessons. Today's lesson: how to write a Spectator story about someplace north of London.

Journalists often have to go to dangerous, lawless, mysterious places, and Spectator journalists are no different. The publication, formerly edited by beloved panto dame and London cycling enthusiast Boris Johnson, recently sent a fellow named Robert Beaumont to Nottingham. Allow me to rewrite the subsequent story in one paragraph: "Cripes, it looks awfully grim here. And what's all this 'Shottingham' palaver? I say, is that man there inebriated in public? Does Arthur Seaton still work at the Raleigh factory? Crikey, that Brian Clough liked his drink..."

To back up his portrait of Nottingham as a cross between Dodge City and Luton, Robert made the refreshing choice of not using any "statistics" or "interviews with people who currently live here". Instead he mixed two techniques, having a bit of a walk around the city centre, and Googling "Nottingham", to compose his piece.

So then, meeja studies students, how does this work? Let's find out!

First – and this is extremely important – you need to buy a good map. A good map, by Spectator standards, is one in which any place beyond the northernmost Tube stations is located in The North. Our man Robert seemed to have become a bit disoriented with this one. He started off referring to Nottingham as an East Midlands city. But mere paragraphs later he's back on track, explaining how Radford is "a chilling example of the urban decay which is withering the soul of many a northern town".

Ah yes, Northern Withered Soul. That always makes for a good night out.

Among the other things to remember about The North, aspiring Spectator writers, is that its hobbies include decaying and being grim. Occasionally a city in The North gets money to revitalise its city centre and attract branches of the stores where you buy your ties. When this happens, you should write stories that celebrate it in much the same way that stories are written when Oxfam raises record amounts for fresh water in the Congo.

Do not, under any circumstances, talk to anyone for your story. Catch a train up to the godforsaken place, walk down a city street until you find someone engaging in drunken northern peasant behaviour, and then extrapolate that to the point where it explains your entire thesis.

Our man Robert apparently didn't see any actual lager-fuelled riots, but he did manage to note that "Goose Gate remains run down: the only sign of activity when I visited, on a dark, windy Thursday night, was a dog in charge of a very drunken man amidst the swirling litter."

A drunk man! Litter! A dog, people, a dog! That part of the story, incidentally, goes towards explaining how Boots isn't what it used to be and Nottingham has forgotten about Jesse Boot. Wow, a drunk man and his dog illustrate that? Bad dog!

Once you've spent your evening (or "dark, windy Thursday night" as the case may be), it's time to see what other people have said about your subject. In this instance, it's always best to rely on those twin colossi of online research, Google and Wikipedia. Robert's story is a virtual encyclopedia of everything one can unearth with a casual search of "Nottingham". In order, the story goes: Robin Hood, former Forest footballer, "Shottingham", Arthur Seaton, deprivation, Raleigh, John Player, miners' strike, Trent Bridge, Australians insulting Nottingham based on visit to Trent Bridge, Jesse Boot, Robin Hood again, Lord Byron, JM Barrie, thriving retail, Brian Clough. The end.

Make sure you say something nice. You know, throw the plebs a bone. They've got some shopping up there, do they? Oooh, give that a paragraph. Make sure your contempt is thinly veiled enough that everyone can tell you really loathe the place, though.

And that's it, meeja studies students. You've written an Spectator article and survived a trip to the grim North/East Midlands/Not London/Wherever.

Treat yourself to an extra cocktail tonight at the Groucho and pat yourself on the back. Job done.