Usually, the default position is to ignore them. The siren voices that is. They arise, usually motivated by a few shekels or the chance of publicity, from wherever they hide in the daytime, to pronounce the imminent death of journalism. In Scotland they are a particularly virulent chorus, forever perfecting their Private Frazer impressions until called upon, usually by self-serving English masters, to chorus their grim tidings.
So, you see, I have been unable to take my default position this time.