The Weapon

There is a song I by Rush called The Weapon and some of the lyrics are particularly relevant:

“And the things that we fear are a weapon to be held against us”

The media thrive on it and also use it to make us (a) buy their paper (because they claim to tell us how it is) and (b) force their political agenda on to us.

Here are some headlines related to Brexit that came from The Daily Express - one of the worst papers on the entire planet:

“New EU Rules Wreck Pensions”

“Each Illegal Immigrant To Cost Us £1million”

“Britain 40% Surge In Ethnic Numbers”

“No Job Unless You’re Polish”

All of these headlines are meant to scare gullible people and persuade them to alter their thinking.

I don’t believe a single word of them. And if you read closely they are written by people with a deep political agenda. Of course, the same is true on the other side of the political spectrum too.

Moreover, fear is used as a means to sell us things that we don’t necessarily need. Salesmen use it all the time. Let me give you an example.

The first property I bought was a brand new three bedroomed semi-detached house that was just a lump of dirt when we actually reserved it from the house building company. We were so proud when we eventually moved in to this brand new estate with similar young people. I was 24 years old.

And then the vultures appeared.

We were swamped by door to door salesmen trying to acquire what little money we had left. One in particular sticks in my mind.

He arrived at 8pm and tried to sell us a burglar alarm. We stupidly let him in and allowed him to demonstrate his device to us. After an hour of his high pressure sales pitch he offered us a piece of paper to confirm the purchase.

“It’s too expensive,” I said. “We’re not interested.”

He was one of those middle-aged salesmen who refuse to take no for an answer. At first he offered us a package where we could pay in monthly instalments and when we refused that, he offered us a deal.

“I can get you 10% off the asking price,” he told us. “My boss will have my guts for garters but I’ll do it for you.”

“What part of “NO!” do you not understand?” said my (ex) wife.

 He tried another tactic.

“Do you care about your family?” he asked me.

I was taken aback by this.

“Of course I do,” I replied.

“It doesn’t seem that way,” he replied. “If your wife came back and surprised a burglar, who knows what could happen? With this alarm, that will never happen because no burglar will get past you front door.”

I didn’t like this one little bit.

“Get out,” I said, now quite angry. “I’m not interested.”

That didn’t deter him. He then started talking about another scenario where my brand new house could be wrecked, my wife injured and my property destroyed.

He was trying to scare us both into giving him money so that our house would be protected. My ex-wife was also not taken in by this. She actually got up, opened the front door and said “Please leave!”

“Are you sure?” he asked me again.

“Yes,” she said, answering for me. “Now go before I call the police.”

She gave him a taste of his own medicine because he said “No need to be like that!” before leaving.

It taught me a lesson about dealing with salesmen, particularly those high pressure types who squat in your house until you sign the bit of paper just to get rid of them.

If you think about it, there are certain companies that use fear to con you into buying things you don’t need. As well as the home security example above, we have things like:

Products that make you look younger. Obviously there are a plethora of anti-ageing products for women that will get rid of those wrinkles but for men we have hair-dye that miraculously turns a decrepit grey-haired old man into an Adonis who has to beat off women with a shitty stick. Like this load of old bollocks:

Products that stop you catching a disease. We all know that if you catch a bad cold, you may need to take a day off work. But certain adverts imply that without their flu remedy you will have to take days off work and probably be sacked as a result. As a hypochondriac, I feel particularly vulnerable when it comes to disease prevention. These bastards are targetting me.

The media. Yes, I know. I feel that I am constantly moaning about the newspaper companies using lies and sensationalist headlines to make us buy their newspapers and even influencing the way people think as I mentioned above. I am certain that they invent stories to scare people and when you actually get down to the nitty gritty of them, there is no substance.

Insurance companies. Mrs PM and I were conned into buying pet insurance for our cats. And then, when I thought about it, and did all the maths, I realised that that I would only save money if the cats became very ill once a year and had to be dragged clawing and screaming to the vet. I am glad that I cancelled it because Jasper and Poppy are now fifteen years old and I shudder when I think about how much pet insurance would have cost in the meantime. There are some insurance policies that you need, for example home and car insurance (but even then home insurance is preying on your fears of being burgled). But do people really need to insure their body parts, for example?

Jennifer Lopez and Kylie Minogue have supposedly insured their arses; Julia Roberts has insured her teeth; Mariah Carey has insured her legs; Dolly Parton and Madonna have insured their boobs; Keith Richards has insured his hands.

I wonder what body part I should insure? Actually, there are no bits of my body worth insuring. At my age, most of it is defunct and drooping now anyway.

Progressive Thoughts - Day 28

Today’s song is another from the brilliant Porcupine Tree called Sentimental.

This is a rather sad song about young kids not wanting to grow old and somehow stay as young as they are but with the added feeling of having wasted their life so far.

I remember when I was a kid that I really wanted to stay young and play forever, but the overriding issue that I realised would remain was the lack of money. As far as I was concerned, with money came freedom and if I had that money I could do what I wanted.

Sadly, a thirteen year old can’t always get the money they want. My parents looked after us but we weren’t rich by any stretch of the imagination. Unfortunately I went to, what was considered, the best school in Walsall, and consequently a lot of kids with rich parents also attended. The big difference was that a lot of them were pampered by their parents who gave them enough money to buy all the latest gear, whereas I missed out. I could see the unfairness of life and I think that this shaped me politically and certainly changed my outlook.

What I saw was that my own parents immensely proud of what I had achieved but some of the other kids I knew were pushed by already successful parents and really struggled to cope.

I was happy with where I was going but I didn’t like the environment I found myself in, particularly when I was at the mercy of rich kids who showed off their treasures and mocked me for not having the same wealth.

My only option was to get a job to get extra cash and it was the best thing I ever did. It was a simple job, in a newsagent but I was able to buy stuff and fight back against the more privileged kids. I worked at the newsagent from thirteen to eighteen, assisting the manager with delivering newspapers, setting up all the paper rounds, collecting money, stock taking, shelf-stacking and, towards the end, selling stuff from behind the counter.

It was all menial work but I thoroughly enjoyed the job, so much so that the manager of the shop tried to persuade me to ditch the idea of university and consider a career as a manager in the chain of shops.

Sadly that wasn’t for me and I had to disappoint him.

However, what all of this taught me was that working for money was a good thing and while it interfered with my social life a little, it meant that I did have some freedom and the ability to laugh in the faces of the pompous arseholes at school who flashed their daddy’s cash around without having earned it.

The job prepared me for a real career and when I actually started work after university, I embraced it with gusto.

Regular readers will know that I am now sick of the rat race but the truth is that I am not a kid anymore and, having worked in IT for over thirty years, I want a change. Whether I achieve my new goals in the years to come is questionable but at least I am happy being the age I am and looking towards the future as an old man with some pleasure – as long as I am physically able to cope of course.

But that thirteen year old kid is still in my head and occasionally surfaces.

I love that and don't ever want that to change.

The Janus Men

There’s been a bit of a furore recently in the UK in the aftermath of the election of the new leader of the Labour Party, the current opposition party.

The new leader is a guy called Jeremy Corbyn, a man whose views are generally a little controversial. The right wing press have had the knives out ever since he put his name forward but, in my opinion have stooped to new depths.

The latest slur against Corbyn is that he was caught doing something absolutely despicable. As controversial as his views are, he has apparently committed a most evil crime against the country, an act bordering on being treasonous that has offended not only the establishment but the veterans of two World Wars and the Queen herself.

Evidently, he can stoop no lower.

So what is this hideous evil thing he has done?

I swear I am not making this up.

HE WAS CAUGHT NOT SINGING OUR NATIONAL ANTHEM!

Here are some of the headlines:

“Corb snubs the Queen” The Sun

“Corbyn snubs Queen and country” The Telegraph

“Shameful: Corbyn refuses to sing national anthem” Daily Express

“Fury as Corbyn refuses to sing national anthem at Battle of Britain memorial” – Daily Mail

“Corby a zero: Leftie refuses to sing national anthem” – Daily Star

This was front page news despite all of the other tragedy that is going on in the world.

Now I don’t really care what your political views are but this story is typical of the kind of shit that makes headlines in our country. I am convinced that we are becoming a nation of idiots who ignore the real tragedies in our own country and the rest of the world in favour of this misguided madness that fuels the fire of absurdity in the United Kingdom.

My views are summed up in this image:

Let me tell you some things about our national anthem.

It’s called God Save the Queen and it is one of the most boring anthems in the world.

It has six verses and of those people who know the words, only a handful actually know all of them.

The people of Scotland hate the anthem because, nestled away in verse six, are the words:

“May he sedition hush and like a torrent rush rebellious Scots to crush”

Here is the anthem:

I do hope you didn't fall into a coma listening to it.

If you are not religious and not a royalist then the song is meaningless to you.

I’ve been to England football matches and traditionally they play the national anthems of the teams involved. I don’t sing it and to be honest a lot of other people don’t either.

At the last cricket match I went to see involving England, they played Jerusalem:

Another candidate that other people have suggested be the anthem is Land of Hope and Glory:

I would probably sing both of those. because they are better than God Save the Queen, more upbeat and joyous. We want a bit of pomp when the anthem rings out and we want to sing about the country’s good points, not a dreary dirge about whoever the current monarch is.

I have nothing against royalty but I largely ignore them. I’ve said before on this blog that they serve a vague purpose but I have no desire to actually prostrate myself in front of Queen Elizabeth as if she really were a better person than me. I would sit and have a chat with her about her life but I would refuse to cave in to the expected social etiquette.

We don’t live in the times of Henry VIII.

For these reasons, I can understand why people are embarrassed to sing the anthem or simply refuse to do so.

Don’t get me wrong; I love my country but there are more important things to consider other than a politician being caught with his mouth closed when he should have been bellowing the words to an outdated song about the monarchy.

Sadly, he has caved in to pressure and will sing the anthem next time he has to in public, just to please a bunch of fawning royalists.

I mean, I thought that our country was free and you should be allowed to live your life as you please without having to fit in with outraged little Englanders.

What annoys me most about this is that the newspapers are claiming the moral high ground about this. It seems to have been forgotten that journalists who work for these papers have been guilty of attacking the royal family in the past. Do they think that we have forgotten about a certain newspaper hacking the voicemail of Prince Charles, the heir to the throne?

The hypocrisy is breath-taking.

What worries me most is that I am surrounded by people who believe absolutely everything they read in the newspapers and their views are moulded by the garbage that they read. There will be people who will never ever consider voting for Jeremy Corbyn because of these pathetic headlines.

The most disturbing hypocrisy has been the refugee crisis where certain newspapers have made a sudden about turn, showing themselves as total hypocrites.

Look at these contrasting headlines in The Sun and the Daily Mail:

Such two-facedness makes me sick.

I’ll end on a lighter note. Here is what Billy Connolly thinks should replace the national anthem:

I think I agree – as long as I can write the new lyrics.

That’s a subject for another post.

Tabloid Newspapers Are Rubbish

Tabloid newspapers are one of my favourite topics to rant about for many reasons, the main one being that they do not contain any real news.

How can a tabloid newspaper actually call itself a newspaper if it doesn't actually contain any real news? The editors of these rags claim that they really do.

I disagree and that makes the following statement absolutely true:

Tabloid newspapers are rubbish.

In the UK we have a few of these tabloids who seem to focus more and more on the cult of celebrity with virtually nothing about what is really happening in the world today – unless it is something of ground shattering importance like a war breaking out.

There are many reasons I really do not want to be famous but chief among them is the fear I have of having my face splashed all over the tabloids because I had an argument with a man in a pub or because a sick minded member of the paparazzi felt a desperate urge to follow me to the Caribbean just so that he could take long distance photos of my arse as I changed into my swim trunks for a dip in the ocean, or worse, my man boobs.

Can you imagine the headline?

Fat Mancunian shows the world his pimply arse.

The problem is that I simply wouldn’t want the world to see my arse. I wouldn’t inflict that sight on anybody. And this would be the prime reason for hiding away on a reclusive beach in Barbados miles away from anybody – except that dickhead with the zoom lens of course.

I realise that some people buy these rags because they enjoy the witty puns and comedic stories about people nobody cares about. The saddest thing of all, to me at least, is the fact that there are thousands of thick people who actually believe what they read in these.

What surprises me more is the fact that these people can actually read in the first place.

Do people want to know that a famous golfer might split up with his girlfriend? Are they really interested in a picture of a Premiership footballer’s wife wearing torn denim hot pants and a very revealing bikini? Does anybody care that Prince Harry might pop to Glastonbury or that David Bowie’s new outfit makes him look like an old man (hardly surprising really since he genuinely is 66 years old)?

Personally I don’t give a shit about any of these stories and seeing a news headline about a female celebrity having a nervous breakdown because of her cellulite is not going to make me hand over my hard earned cash to the publishers so that they can spend it on yet more sordid photos of other celebrities getting their kits off on a beach somewhere.

How these rags can claim that they are “number one for news” is beyond me because they simply do not contain any news of note.

What’s worse is that sometimes the so-called news they write about is in fact totally false or simply speculation that is written in such a way that gullible readers actually believe it.

How can they get away with it?

Imagine again, if I were famous and went to a restaurant for a coffee with an old female friend.

The headline might read:

You Dirty Rat: Love rat Plastic Mancunian romances blonde beauty in high class London night spot

Plastic Mancunian, the world famous blogger who loves to call readers of this newspaper “thick arses”, has been spotted wining and dining a mysterious blonde beauty in Coffers restaurant, leading to speculation that his fifteen year relationship with Mrs PM is on the rocks. Meals at Coffers cost as much as £250 and Plastic Mancunian wasted no time in spending a fortune on the new woman in his life. Friends and acquaintances fear the worst having seen our exclusive pictures of the dirty low down scheming womanizer kissing her on the cheek with a gentle hug.

And this is why such rags are utter rubbish.

How they manage to get away with it is beyond me. If I had the power, I would ban them all.

They are the reason why people seem to be obsessed with trashy television, trashy music and trashy celebrities some of whom are simply famous for being famous and nothing more.

I feel sorry for genuine people whose names are dragged through these tabloids in sensationalised stories based on photographs taken by paparazzi, stooping to new depths to get that exclusive long range shot of cellulite on the arse of an actress as she sunbathes with her husband on a yacht in the Bahamas.

Don’t just take my word for it. Judge for yourself. Here are today’s headlines from some of the British press:

From The Guardian – a real newspaper:

NSA spying claims threaten key EU-US trade pact.

General Practitioners told to charge non-Britons for NHS services.

Cameron and army divided over Afghanistan role after 2014.

From The Telegraph – another real newspaper:

EU demands explanation over US spying claim.

David Cameron: Pakistan must act tough on extremists.

Police launch manhunt after brutal slaying of mother of two.

Now these from The Sun – a tabloid:

Dog tired: Kim snapped for first time since having her baby – and she’s asleep.

([Ed]-The Kim in question is Kim Kardashian apparently)

Everton star in sex texting pics shame 

([Ed] – Another footballer who few people care about)

Apprentice girl ex was pimp

([Ed] One of the contestants on this year's series of The Apprentice)

And another tabloid – The Mirror:

Cheryl Cole turns 30! Style disasters and glamour in pics.
([Ed] Why are people obsessed with Cheryl Cole?)

Andy Carroll lets hair down in Las Vegas night club
([Ed] Yet another Premiership footballer).

Prince Harry parties till 4am at Glastonbury after rocking out to Rolling Stones.
([Ed] So what?)

See what I mean?

What annoys me further (and yes there really is more) are the names that these tabloids have invented for people.

For example, Wayne Rooney, the Manchester United footballer, has become ROO so that the writers can concoct hilarious headlines with a maximum cringe factor such as:

What a Heroo!

I only have eyes for Roo.

We’re Throo!

Some of the headlines can be quite clever (although I still cringe and struggle to stop myself throwing up briefly in my mouth) – like this one from The Sun:

How do you solve a problem like Korea?

Gord help us now.
([Ed]- When Gordon Brown became Prime Minister).

And this one when a small Scottish football team called Inverness Caledonian Thistle (known as Cally) beat the best team in Scotland – Celtic:

Super Cally go ballistic, Celtic are atrocious
([Ed] For all his ranting – PM actually smiled at that one)

Finally, for your enjoyment after having read my ranting post, here are a few clever puns (not from newspapers) that may make you smile:

I know a guy addicted to brake fluid. He says he can stop any time.

When a clock is hungry it goes back four seconds.

I went to a seafood disco last week and pulled a mussel.

I’m reading a book about anti gravity. It’s impossible to put down.

And then there was the cross-eyed teacher who couldn’t control his pupils.

I used to be addicted to soap but I’m clean now.

The dead batteries were given out free of charge.

It was an emotional wedding. Even the cake was in tiers.

A boiled egg in the morning is hard to beat.

The frustrated cannibal threw up his hands.

Yes – I know some of them are terrible.

And I apologise.

Here Is The News

On Friday somebody genuinely asked me:

“What planet are you from?”

There was a valid reason for the question and it made me realise something about myself: I have changed.

Let me tell you a story. On Friday, a group of us hired a minibus and drove to Nottingham to watch day two of the test match between England and Pakistan. I usually try to take in at least one day’s cricket during the summer, heading to Nottingham, Birmingham or, of course, Manchester for a day of sun, cricket and beer (which sometimes involves just beer if the unpredictable British weather decides scupper our plans).

On Friday we enjoyed almost a full day’s cricket and one or two beers with it. In the minibus on the way back, I noticed that one of our fellow travellers had purchased a newspaper, so I thought I would pass the time by reading it.

The newspaper was The Sun.

I use the word “newspaper” when in reality I should use the word “comic”.

The Sun (or to give it the full title The Super Soaraway Sun) is one of three major tabloid newspapers that are driven by the cult of celebrity, strange sensationalist stories and perhaps one or two items of news.

If I had been totally sober I would have read the newspaper shaking my head in disbelief and tutting at the absurdity of the articles. Alas, my brain was under the influence of several pints of the finest ale in Nottinghamshire so the first thing I unleashed on my unsuspecting fellow passengers was my soapbox (which I always carry in my back pocket in case of emergency).

My eyes widened as I read the tales of woe – it took about thirty seconds for this newspaper to unlock the ranting box.

“Who the bloody hell are these people?” I yelled.

A couple of people who had dozed off were suddenly jarred awake by my outburst. A couple of my closest mates looked at each other and as their eyes met, a silent message passed between them:

“Right – get the popcorn out. This should be fun.”

There were absurd stories about celebrities who I had never heard of. I read outlandish headlines describing the antics of these unknown goons with tales that were about as interesting to me as the fly that was crawling on the window next to me:

Somebody from X Factor had snogged somebody else I had never heard of.

A Z-list nobody from the current series of Big Brother had apparently once been arrested for some minor offence.

An unknown wannabe had argued with another unknown wannabe in a night club.

“Who ARE these people?” I cried.

One guy in the minibus, the guy who had bought the newspaper, then asked me what planet I was from. He read this rag regularly and was therefore totally familiar with these people who, to me at least, spent all of their time trying to do controversial things just so that The Sun could report on them.

I disregarded the question and continued to read. When I had exhausted “the news” I drifted into the problem page where an agony aunt answered questions that actually made me laugh out loud, I started to read them aloud and, fuelled by alcohol, giggled like an insane extraterrestrial. I was in tears, howling at the problems some people write in about.

“It’s made up,” I cried amidst gales of laughter. “Who would write in with problems like these?”

In the end, somebody took the paper off me because I was quite literally on the brink of bursting.

The next day the question came back to haunt me. I switched on the TV to watch the news and it all came back to me just before reality kicked in: I am out of touch.

In my younger days, I used to watch soap operas and occasionally read tabloid newspapers, so I had an inkling who most of the stars of tabloid news were. A few years ago at work a group of us used to pop off to the pub for lunch on Friday afternoons and read the three main tabloids, giggling at the stories and trying desperately to find something worth reading.

We used to have a competition called “Pun of the Week” where we would search for the most ridiculous sensationalist headline in all three papers and then vote for the best. I knew who these characters were – I didn’t care for them at all but I had a vague notion.

I no longer read them and haven’t done so for a good fifteen years or so. Occasionally a tabloid crosses my path but within five minutes I have thrown it down in disgust.

I think this is the reason that I am so out of touch. I should perhaps read this crap.

Many years ago, I remember reading about a judge who hadn’t heard of one such wannabe celebrity and he was absolutely pilloried for being so out of touch with society and youth. I joined in the derision; at the time I watched soap operas, listened to the pop charts and watched dreadful Saturday night television and all of those crappy talk shows and light entertainment programmes. I knew who these people were and could not understand why a stuffy old git in a wig would never have heard of them.

Then I came to my senses and my choices changed. Pop music gradually became dreadful. I realised that soap operas were rubbish; my ex-wife used to watch them all the time and I learned to appreciate that there was more to life – so I simply stopped watching them with her. Equally, I saw that most TV on Saturday night, what people would call light entertainment, was actually utter shit. One or two gems surfaced but the majority of it was mind-numbingly tedious and about as entertaining as watching paint dry.

And now I am just like that stuffy old judge; I have no idea who these people are. I have absolutely no idea why they are so fascinating. I simply cannot see why anybody would even be vaguely interested in the lives of these people at all.

Is that wrong?

Am I in the minority here, dear reader?

Am I really a stuffy old git?

Should I get involved in the cult of celebrity?

Don’t worry, dear reader, I am not asking you to be an agony aunt for me. I have already answered these questions and I simply don’t care that I have never heard of a Z-list ex Big Brother wannabe. I don’t care that I regard magazines like OK! and Hello! where readers are invited into celebrity homes to see how the other half lives.

However, there is a part of me that is curious and reading The Sun had stimulated my interest a little. I have done a little research.

I’m not an anthropologist by any means (in fact I might just be a massive challenge to an anthropologist) but I have delved a little into this.

Last night, I was alone in the house with my two cats; Mrs PM had gone out with friends. This gave me the opportunity to watch Saturday night TV to see if I could gain any insight into why people watch this bilge.

First up was Hole In The Wall where a bunch of celebrities have to get through a funny shaped hole in a rapidly moving wall. If they can’t do it, they end up in a pool of water. They can win money for charity apparently. It was awful. The music was irritating, the jokes were unfunny. Even when they celebrities hit the water I didn’t laugh once. It was utter bilge.

Next was 101 Ways To Leave A Gameshow where a bunch of real people compete against each other, with contestants being eliminated in bizarre ways, like being dragged off by a Formula one car, being dropped fifty feet into a pool of water, dropped through a trapdoor or, in last night’s show, being turned over in a stock car with a massive ball of flames. Now I actually enjoyed this – simply because people who fail to answer questions are eliminated in bizarre ways. Okay – the contestants were egotistical maniacs who wanted their fifteen minutes of fame but they were brought crashing down to earth as they were dragged from the show in increasingly terrifying ways (my favourite was the ejector seat).

At this point, however, I had had enough. I’m sorry, dear reader, but there is only so much crap I can take.

But if you are one of those people who love this kind of bland mind-numbing bilge then fear not – I believe there is a new series of The X Factor coming soon which will satisfy the needs of those who crave crap TV and have musical taste that is so shallow, that they wet themselves over the latest dreadful karaoke singers.

And there is more, dear reader. In the interests of research, I have bought two newspapers today instead of just the usual one.

The first is The Sunday Times, which is the flagship Sunday newspaper. It is a serious broadsheet and a bargain at £2. It is vast and enormous. It has eight sections, each of which is a newspaper in its own right and comes with three magazines.

It is so huge that you could use it to wallpaper each house in my street.

As you would expect from such a newspaper, it focuses on the news, covering current affairs, politics, sport, business, health, money, travel, culture and style. There is talk of celebrity but only when these celebrities actually do something newsworthy or are in the news because of their art.

The other newspaper is a tabloid called The Sunday People. You might think that is better value for money at a cost of 95p but that’s where it ends. It is not serious at all, not by any stretch of the imagination. It is just one single newspaper with three little magazines – one of which is a “special” in preparation for the start of the football season next week, listing the fixtures of every club in England and Scotland.

What newsworthy items are contained within these papers then?

The Sunday Times talks about a British killing squad in Afghanistan, 11 year old girls on the pill, a row in the Home Office about a controversial aide to the Home Secretary, Naomi Campbell giving evidence in the Hague at a war crimes trial, more news on the new Conservative government’s cuts, the drop in ratings of the Liberal Democrat Party since the election and the Navy’s attempts to save £10billion. All of this appears on the first two pages and is the tip of the iceberg. The rest of the newspaper contains actual news from home and abroad and not just the antics of the latest supermodel on her Caribbean holiday.

The Sunday People has the following.

The first page is divided into three bits – the first (taking up almost three quarters of the page) is an advert for the fixtures magazine that comes free with the paper. The second, just below that under the headline “Dead Duck” is a taster for the impending death “in a bloodbath” of one of the characters, Jack Duckworth (Dead Duck - Get it?), in the soap opera Coronation Street. Finally right at the top of the page is a picture of a woman’s backside under the headline “Move over J-Lo”.

Let’s turn over to page two.

Ah – some news. Apparently we are going to be attacked by Al-Qaeda because of David Cameron’s views on Pakistan and a couple of other minor stories about the Labour Party leadership elections and some landmines found in Afghanistan.

Page Three? We learn the identity of the owner of the arse on page one – none other than Scary Spice. This takes up almost the entire page. There is also a small story about Frank Lampard, the footballer, buying a £4million house.

So what? Am I alone in thinking that this kind of stuff is not worth the paper it is printed on?

But it gets better. On pages four and five, they expand on the Dead Duck headline from page one, with a double page spread about something that is going to happen in a fictional soap opera on TV some time in the future.

The rest of the paper is pretty much the same with a story about “SuBo” (aka Susan Boyle, the Scottish woman who sang like an angel), Simon Cowell (again) is apparently “stressed”, Cheryl Cole has fallen out with one of her bandmates (who cares?), Charlotte Church wants to fall in love again, David Beckham giving his son a kiss and various other sensationalist stories about other celebrities and nasty people who have done despicable things to each other.

It is truly awful and I can’t think why anybody would buy this thing week in week out.

Am I alone?

There is one thing worth having a look at though: “Dear Rachel” who is “Britain’s Most Straight-Talking Agony Aunt”.

I am absolutely convinced that the people who write letters to agony aunts are simply making it all up. I am sorely tempted to do this myself – for a laugh. And the “sex tips” are even better.

Maybe I should become an internet agony uncle, specialising in people who have problems separating celebrity culture from real life, for example:

People who regard themselves as Kerry Katona’s best friend because they watch a reality TV show about her.

People who think that Katie Price’s new reality TV show is worthy of anything more than the “off” button on a remote control.

People who think that “Jack Duckworth” is a real person.

My advice will be simple:

Get a life!