Thursday 7th August 2003 – Fighting Papers

I like Sunday newspapers. They are the satisfying, macho answer to the pathetic, flimsy weekday editions. In a fight, Sunday newspapers would be Big Daddy and weekday editions would be Tom Thumb. Even though Tom Thumb and Big Daddy were friends, so probably wouldn’t fight each other. Which makes sense, as Sunday newspapers are just sister editions to the weekday versions, so essentially should be friends.

(Warming to theme)

But, rival papers could have fights.

Now, in that case, the criteria are these. Sundays are stronger than dailies. They are bigger and have more sections. But some of those sections are unnecessary and just weigh them down, like fat. Thus rendering the Big Daddy analogy doubly apt. But they are bigger, and thus stronger all the same.

So, in the All-England Championship of newspapers, the Daily Mail would be vanquished in the first round by the Daily Mirror. The snivelling Mail would try every trick in the book - slapping, rabbit punching and eye gouging in a desperate attempt to overcome its trimmer, more streetwise foe, before filling its pants and begging for mercy. There is none, and the hateful, scare-mongering little shit is put to the sword to rapturous applause.

In the other heat, the Guardian saunters smugly out of its corner, expecting an easy victory over the Sun. Circling the smaller newspaper haughtily, the Guardian plays to the crowd, while the Sun sits, trembling with barely-suppressed rage in the centre of the ring. The Guardian, bouncing on his heels begins to goad the Sun, slapping it lightly and daring it to come closer. It looks like it has its measure. But like the arrogant Hare (out of the Tortoise and the Hare), it has taken its smaller opponent too lightly, as suddenly the Sun explodes in a frankly shocking, whirlwind explosion of viciousness. The Sun doles out a sickening and ferocious beating, all of its brute, inarticulate hatred spewing forth in an orgy of violence. And when the Guardian is totally incapacitated, the exhausted, sweat-drenched Sun turns it over and administers a brutal Deliverance-style rogering.

The next round sees the Daily Telegraph take on the Observer. The Telegraph is the self-styled dandy highwayman of the newspaper-wrestling world (I can feel this analogy beginning to collapse under its own weight, but I am going to see it through), and struts around the ring as if to the manor born. It has scant respect for the scruffy, T-shirted Observer, who lounges in his corner, polishing off a plate of Bangers and Mash, washed down with pale, Belgian lager. An initial volley of Queensbury-appropriate punches are easily absorbed by the Observer, who only grins laconically, as if it thinks itself too cool to partake. Only when it notices a drop of blood on its £1000 retro heavy metal T-shirt does he spring into action, grabbing the Telegraph by its breeches, and using its impressive ‘Review’ section to bludgeon its face into a pulp, shattering its monocle into a thousand pieces. Knock-out.

Further bouts see the Express spring a surprise victory over an ailing, malnourished Independent, while the Daily Star and the Daily Sport are disqualified for obscene behaviour.

In the semis, the Express falls to another snarling, hate-filled flurry of wrath from the Sun, while the Mirror overcomes the Observer, using its size against it, and delivering a volley of punishing and intellectually embarrassing body blows.

So, contrary to the criteria I cited at the beginning, the final is played out between two dailies. That’s sport for you.

The Sun darts out of its corner in a slavering, chaotic explosion of incoherent rage. Every disappointment, resentment and prejudice compressed into an onslaught of elemental aggression. The Mirror defends itself expertly, but its much-vaunted modern, intelligent approach to fighting is proving ineffective against the drooling Sun’s disorienting flurries of attacks. Realising that it is fighting a losing battle, a switch seems to flick somewhere deep

inside the Mirror, and it suddenly launches into a furious, frenzied assault every bit as ugly and relentless as the Sun’s own. Two unpleasant but undeniably powerful forces of nature ripping and tearing at each other, battering onlookers and umpires alike in a desperate fight to the death.

And at the end, cheered on by the majority of the baying crowd, the Sun stands victorious, the blood of its opponent encrusted under its nails, and around its dripping chops. What a foul beast this is.

So. What the fuck was all that about? I don’t know any better than you. I was going to write about a really good art review I read in the Observer on Sunday, but I got carried away by the image of newspapers fighting each other. Everyone knows the Daily Mail is vile and hateful, and it’s become a bit of a boring truism to say so. The Express is its pipsqueak little brother. The Telegraph is for myopic Bertie Woosterish toffs who resent asylum seekers because they somehow contribute toward the insurance premiums on their Bentleys going up. The Guardian is intelligent and right-minded, but insufferably pompous. The Observer is also a good read, but rather too determinedly trendy and attached like a leech to Tony Blair’s bumhole. The Mirror has now backtracked from the frontier of being the best newspaper in the country by chucking in most of its liberal agenda and reverting to rabble-rousing type, with its recent championing of Tony Martin being the bitterly disappointing final straw.

So, at the end, it is always the Sun that romps home with the lion’s share of the readership. Blithely racist, lunkheaded prole-feed that it is, it clearly strikes a chord with millions and millions of people. Frightening that so many people should feel an affinity with the likes of Richard Littlejohn and his ‘to hell in a handcart’ partners in tripe, but that’s the way it is.

If only everyone was like me – peerlessly intelligent and utterly fucking morally impeachable. Believe me, I wouldn’t be so arrogant as to preach in this way if I wasn’t certain that I am the best person on earth. All hail me. King of quizzes, and Sultan of all that is good and not in any way self-important.

Thanks.