Thursday, 3 November 2011

Thief in the night

The problem with the Daily Mail (as if that could ever be narrowed down to a single issue) is that it holds a morbid fascination for anyone who doesn't see life through the prism of Viz's Victorian Dad. Like the notorious 'Two Girls, One Cup' video, it draws people in with its hateful editorial stance and equally loathsome columnists. We know we're going to be disgusted, but we just can't help taking a peek. And then sharing with like-minded friends. It's the journalistic equivalent of trying those disgusting sweets that someone brings back from overseas, and then encouraging everyone else to have a suck, so they can experience the foulness for themselves. Meanwhile, Paul Dacre sits back in his throne and watches the web traffic spike.

It's happening again today, as Liz Jones continues her ongoing campaign of self-immolation by admitting that she stole her boyfriend's sperm and tried to impregnate herself while he was sleeping. It's bad enough being forced to picture her in flagrante, but the image is made a hundred times worse when imagining her staggering bow-legged to the ensuite with a used johnny full of man-fat and a hungry expression in her beady, lifeless eyes. She's like the Tooth Fairy, only armed with a turkey baster instead of a pair of dental pliers.

Since logic and humility have never paid more than a fleeting visit to Liz's door, I'm forced to contemplate the notion that she's actually a fictional creation. An impeccably drawn amalgam of Adrian Mole and Alan Partridge. Only a comic genius could rationalise sperm stealing from a prospective babydaddy with the bon mot: "I thought it was my right, given that he was living with me and I had bought him many, many M&S ready meals." Given her famous money worries, I just pray that she managed to score three courses for a tenner.

As Justin Bieber faces the consequences of thirty brief seconds "fucking the shit" out of a fan (someone should explain to him that's not how babies get made) he should perhaps heed Liz's words of caution for future reference: "I don’t understand why more men aren’t wise to this risk — maybe sex addles their brain. So let me offer a warning to men wishing to avoid any chance of unwanted fatherhood: if a woman disappears to the loo immediately after sex, I suggest you find out exactly what she is up to." In Liz's world, vaginal cleanliness is optional. 

In customary fashion, the succubus of Somerset gives herself a free pass, instead choosing to point the finger at women in general. Apparently most women in their thirties are "duplicitous creatures", conspiring to wank you in your sleep and run off to the loo with a fistful of your baby gravy - like Geri Halliwell in the throws of bulimia, covertly fishing chocolate cake out of George Michael's bin. 

Meanwhile, another classic Mail creation is busy pointing the cum-soaked finger of blame elsewhere, when it comes to illegitimate children. Amanda Platell, a woman who could curdle the milk of human kindness, has unleashed a vitriolic attack on Hugh Grant. She's still pissed off that the affable toff made a good showing on Newsnight and Question Time, speaking eloquently about the abuses of the press in light of the phone hacking scandal.

So she pulls no punches in accusing him of being a commitment-phobic lounge lizard who consorts with prostitutes and then dissolves into an "orgy of self-pity". Amanda has nothing but sympathy for the poor child, born to a "lonely, bitter" father. In fact, she fears for the day when Hugh's daughter "reads the lurid accounts of her father’s arrest for procuring a sex act in a car on Sunset Boulevard from a prostitute..." Hopefully, unless it's buried behind a paywall, she'll be able to find everything she needs in Amanda's many, many columns on the subject. 

And there you have it. Women are a bunch of baby-obsessed jizz snatchers, harvesting men's seed by the light of the moon, and men are thoughtless brat factories; existing only to plough their furrow and dash at the first sign of a late period. No wonder the Mail wants us to return to the 1950s, if this is the best that 21st century humanity has to offer.

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