Depressing news in the Guardian today. The Daily Mail could be on target to become the UK’s top selling daily newspaper. It’s already the paper of choice for Britain’s terrified, ageing middle class and, according to predicted sales figures, could be on its way to bashing the once-untouchable, super soaraway Sun in the bitter circulation wars. Not that I’ll be shedding any tears for Murdoch’s red top you understand, but I think in the greater scheme of things, his tacky tabloid is nowhere near as malevolent as the Daily Mail: hate and fear spurts from every page of this vile shit rag, feverishly gripped in a permanent state of outrage about, well, everything.
The cunning tactic has been to combine their infamous right-wing, fear mongering journalism with an endless stream of celebrity obsessed piffle. A sort of cross between Mein Kampf and Now magazine. So instead of just reading news items about single mums / benefit cheats / teenage abortion / dwindling church numbers / illegal immigrants and the endless influx of darkies and gypsies, etc., readers are also now “treated” to features on the size of Abi Titmuss’s arse; the colour of Coleen McLoughlin’s socks; Kerry Whatsername's new tits or how many cheeseburgers Britney Spears ate yesterday.
And if all this weren’t bad enough, the Mail last week dug deep into its big pockets to lure back the “talent” of its prodigal son – Richard Littlejohn. Ah, bless, he's returning to his spiritual home. The mouthpiece for Middle England bigotry himself. The man who sees no irony in writing endless tirades berating the erosion of British society from the comfort of his home in. . . . Florida. To repeat his hackneyed phrase: "You couldn't make it up!". (Except he does, of course. Frequently.)
So there you have it. The Daily Mail: newspaper of our times. The one that captures the zeitgeist. Probably even fancies itself as the paper of record. It’s enough to make you puke.