Who ever said that the Daily Mail wasn?t a source of intellectual nourishment? What callous, idiotic fool would say that there's anything in the Daily Mail that wouldn't result in a person having a far more positive and enlightened outlook on the world? Surely it's a well established fact that the Daily Mail is one of the most progressive and forward-thinking publications on the market today.
While you're pathetically shaking your head with that lefty-liberal burble of ?Ooh, well, I don't quite know about that,? while you drink your skinny macchiato, Richard Littlejohn takes a sip from a blue lagoon and initiates the ?You Couldn't Make It Up? macro on his smashed up Time computer from 1997 which writes entire articles at the touch of a button.
While you tuck into your locally sourced organic vegetable platter (or something) Paul Dacre is probably tearing the flesh from a locally sourced, organic kitten while laughing maniacally as his politically radical slave spraypaints the words ?Atheist Yobbo Twunts? onto the bottom of a drained swimming pool.
Yes, the Daily Mail is progressive to the point of being post-apocalyptic.
It is only when Jan Moir takes to the collective keyboard (one per group of ten) and criticises other people for a shocking lack of taste, that the world is liable to descend into the horrific and utterly fictional image of a right-wing dystopia described in the previous paragraph. It's the kind of hyp0crisy which could tear a hole in space-time causing every nuclear weapon on earth to detonate simultaneously, throwing us into a parallel universe.
Of course, Jan Moir would still be the absolute pinnacle of good taste and the common decency of the world. Let's face it, Stephen Ireland?s (he plays for Aston Villa) interior d?cor choices are definitely an important thing for an award winning columnist to focus on. After all, the personal life choices of celebrities have always been something that Ms Moir has been able to cast aspersion on from her well-appointed home which sits atop a 55km pedestal in the Earth?s stratosphere.
While Moir sat tapping out her diatribe, probably surrounded by muted cream tones and tasteful artificial flowers from shop for-the-already-dead, Laura Ashley, she spat into a Laoki spit-bucket from IKEA. So sickened was she by the idea that an overpaid Irishman might want to have his name on things that she turned away from her copy of VIP magazine toward her press clipping of her article on the death of Stephen Gately (framed in an oak frame with a simple ‘precious memories’ motif) and shed a solitary tear. After all, he’s spent most of his professional life with his name written on his back. Why shouldn’t he want to see it in front of him occasionally?
How dare this rich man want to have lavish things in his home? An aquarium?! What an affront to fish! A pink princess-themed bedroom for a FIVE year old GIRL?! Surely that’s unreasonable even to the most common mind. How dare this family have a home which is decorated to their own tastes and preferences? Doesn’t he know he’s got money and must therefore consider how some columnists’ eyes might be mortified into a permanent state of flickering bitterness?!
The ire and unrepentant rage that is felt when one has to look at a footballer’s home in a publication which is only available in Ireland so often provokes such anger that there’s no choice but to send it to a newspaper columnist to be replicated for her intolerant readership to guffaw heartily into their toast (white) and coffee (again, white).
It’s just the way life is. It’s an affront to taste and decency. As the Daily Mail is so famous for stating “not in my front room!”. Of course, it’s not in your front room. It’s in his. In fact it’s Moir who’s guilty of forcing this drivel into people’s front rooms on a weekly basis.
Still, at least she doesn’t have a fish tank.
Editor’s Feeble Aside: Please note that any lawyers taking umbrage with what has been written here should be aware that many of points made were entirely satirical and intentionally not based on fact. Facts aren’t as funny… as well you know.
Stella says
A dunce chasing a ball making by umpteen orders of magnitude more money than a scientist, a doctor, an engineer etc is indeed a sign of moral putrefaction of the society.