Regular readers, (AMTONW) will understand that I had occasion to buy a Sunday newspaper this week, where a stasis leak had occurred, and a bit of the internet had spilled out into that parallel universe laughingly referred to as “the real world”, viz. my contribution to the Atticus column in the Sunday Times.
There is a flood of outrage, (well, one comment) over on Boris’s site, where old Atticus is castigated for ripping off material when he is paid so much to write his own. I don’t mind this. As a great artist myself, I am not unfamiliar with the struggle to entertain my audience (AMTONW).
What was surprising was the size of the newspaper. I really could have done with a shopping trolley to get it to my car. I asked a young lad who was loitering in the shop for assistance “Would you like to grab hold of my supplement?”, but he affected indifference. I imagine the recycling team will refuse to take the contents of the recycling bin next time. “No, guv, there’s no market for that much paper – we’d have to chop down three ancient woodlands to avoid overproduction”.
And all of it filled with cack. I haven’t read it, and don’t intend to. I just wanted a record of my little contribution. There are 4 pages apparently about the next leader of the Tories. It was Boris writing about this dull topic that inspired my very clever contribution to his web site. The analogy is, you are going to have a large stick inserted in your rectum. The good news is that there are five sticks to choose from, all identical in size, shape and volume, but slightly different colours, and the choice is yours. As with the competition to be top Tory, it may make some difference to the candidates, and I leave readers (AMTONW) to make up their own minds about the relative states of consciousness and awareness of sticks and Conservative MPs, but makes no difference whatsoever to me.
I dread to think what was in the other Sunday papers on offer, I didn’t buy the Observer, Telegraph, Anthrax or Koala. I refused to peruse the contents of the Mirror, People, Armpit or Pustule, as I have no interest in “My night of lust with Val Doonican”. (I see more unwelcome visitors courtesy of Theodore and Evadne Google).
No, friends (AMTONW), eschew the seamy world of Murdoch and read the blogs. Watski or Peregrine Worsthorne? No contest.