#4 The Daily Fail

So there I am, sat at my in laws' kitchen table, idly flicking through their copy of The Daily Mail. I should know better. I should expect the stomach churning anger and the teeth gritting frustration that comes with this very same activity, that has come with it many, many times before. But I continue on, flicking from the sports pages backwards past the adverts for slankets and plates emblazoned with wrinkled royal faces, through a middle page spread featuring a former weather girl's/daytime TV presenter's/little known author's heartache and pain on finding that they were adopted/they had a long lost brother/their husband was a cross dresser. And there it was. The big story of the day, right there on page three.

"She fancied a fried egg sandwich. But Ann Hordon didn't get any further than breaking the egg into the pan.

For there, sizzling away, were four golden yellow yolks. All from a single shell."

I can imagine the excitement in the Mail offices when the photo of Mrs Hordon and her incredible egg hit the shiny mahogany desk of the lucky hack she had contacted. He no doubt threw open his door screaming 'STOP THE PRESSES! Bump the Haiti quake! Forget those thousands of dodgy Toyotas! Who even CARES about bombings in Pakistan...hell, today we're not even going to talk about immigration and those poor soldiers in Afghanistan because we've got the biggest story of the week, the month, probably the year!' That's when he slapped the picture of Hordon, ready in her big clip on earrings and golden bangles, a freshly ironed cardi pulled around her ample bosom smilingly showing off her ready cracked eggs.

I'm not even going to mention the fact that next week I'm going to send a picture of a fluffy yellow chick in my frying pan to the Mail. How could they question it? There it is a chick, in the pan. How could they consider the possibility that I simply put a chick...well, in a pan, and snapped a picture of it? I can prove it! Look HERE'S THE SHELL.

No, the fact that The Daily Mail have given space to a story which couldn't even possibly be verified, a story which really isn't even a story, is not my point. My point it this: The Daily Mail is not a newspaper.

Or rather, its a newspaper in the way that The News of the World or The National Enquirer is a newspaper. But the difference is that the Screws knows what it is, the journalists who work on the Screws knows what it is and so do the people who buy it and read it - it's a cheap thrill which might be honest or might not. The reason the Mail is so dangerous (and it is dangerous)is that it considers itself an equal to The Times or The Guardian and so do those who read it.

There are those of us who sneer at The Mail and all it stands for, who laugh in the face of another story about how buying a house can give you cancer or how immigrants can...er, give you cancer. But there are even more who buy it religiously, that suck up its drivel like its the Holy Scriptures. And then these people spout the same 'good sense' nonsense to their friends and family. There's no such thing as global warming, 99.9% of crime is committed by non-whites, all children are essentially 54% more evil than they were forty years ago. As far as the Mail's readers are concerned if it proves the prejudices which make them feel slightly uncomfortable now that they're in their middle age and their children can give them the 'I'm not sure that's appropriate Dad' look, it's something to be quoted.

Proof of how the Mail is, at best out of touch, at worse malicious came late last year in the form of that Jan Moir opinion piece. While Moir got the brunt of the anger over her spiteful claims that Stephen Gateley's death was caused by (to paraphrase) being gay, it appeared to be overlooked that Moir's editors allowed the story to be published. At the very least three editors would have signed off on the story (in print and online including at least one sub) before it was read by the outraged public.

Interesting that it was The Daily Mail who began the witch hunt against Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand for an ill advised and stupid prank call on Brand's Radio 2 show. This over reaction (only a handful of people complained before The Daily Mail splashed what was very much a non news story all over its pages in an attempt to prove that Ross and Brand were bullies of the very worst kind, picking on a poor defenseless old man) resulted in the sacking of the DJ's producer and suspension for both Ross and Brand who have both since quit the BBC. Even more interesting that Jan Moir - who made disgusting, homophobic comments about a man barely cold after his death (her speculation that it was not possible for Gateley to have died of natural causes were quickly proved wrong) - has kept her job along with those who published her piece.



If you need any further guidance on cancer causes and cures, this may help: http://kill-or-cure.heroku.com/

#3 Footballer In Cheating On Wife Shocker

This John Terry thing. Did it really come as a shock to you? Really? No but, really?

Let's break it down point by point:

1. he is a MAN, a man who, one can safely now assume, has a penis

2. he is wildly overpaid, vastly overexposed and hero worshipped for being able to run in a straight line

3. women (not all I hasten to add) love footballers, even ugly ones with mean foreheads

4. footballers, as a general rule, are not the sharpest of tools

5. footballers, and sportsmen in general, are often away from home staying in hotels, drinking with other overpaid men and being salivated over by girls in teensy dresses



The shock and disappointment with which Terry's infidelity has been greeted is, all this considered, slightly idiotic. As far as I can tell the England captain, unlike many of his teammates, is fairly private. That is to say he doesn't advertise Japanese hair loss supplements or invite the press over to take a photie every time he manages to take a pee without getting his shoes wet. With this in mind we can't claim to know him, know what kind of person he is or to understand the reasons behind this misdemeanor. One can simply assume that the temptation placed in front of dear John Terry outweigh both his self control and his brain cells.

Just a few weeks ago Golfing God Tiger Woods found himself publicly lynched by a bewildered, disillusioned public. A few years ago a world mourned on discovering that David Beckham (good looking, not especially bright, loaded, talented, worshipped) had cheated on Victoria (sullen, lacking in talent, extremely unsexy)with Rebecca Loos (savvy, available, oversexed).

The fact of it is that these men are cheating is the least shocking of it all. The public reaction, the call for the heads of those in the wrong, the scrabbling for every gory detail, the sainting of the cuckqueans, is more surprising. In this case England Manager, Fabio Capello (come ON, an Italian who played in the 70s), has been forced in to considering John Terry's future as captain of the national team. If shagging around seriously affected footballing performance George Best wouldn't have an airport named after him today. Meanwhile the news is filled with Max Clifford's glorious mug as he comforts poor Vanessa Perroncel, the object of Terry's wandering trouser snake and tales of the Chelsea striker being granted 'compassionate leave' to spend time with his distraught wife. Because for some unfathomable reason - perhaps we just like to see the mighty fall - we care, we want to hear the latest on this unsavoury rendezvous, to know whether he went with Vanessa to the abortion clinic, whether his wife is going to stand by him, if Perroncel's ex and Terry's teammate Wayne Bridge has yet to land one on him.

With mere months until the England squad fly to South Africa for the World Cup the public and press are causing feathers to fly when they could simply have been ruffled behind closed doors. And those feathers will undoubtedly disrupt the team's ability to play well, certainly a change in captaincy will put England on the back foot so late in the day. And those who have been baying for John Terry's blood this week will be bemoaning his demotion when England find themselves unceremoniously dumped on their arses in the early stages of the tournament.