The Daily Mail Is Like A High Security Mental Home For Journalists
Ever seen The Silence of the Lambs where Clarice Starling comes to visit Hannibal Lecter for the first time?
Well, reading the Daily Mail is sort of like that.
The poker-faced turnkey unlocks the heavy door, warning you in a terse monotone to stay in the centre of the corridor – and whatever you do, don’t get too close to the bars.
Unnerved despite yourself, you begin to walk through, your own hollow footsteps echoing around you.
Eerie voices creep out at you from the cells you pass, alive with terrifying insanity.
From the corner of your eye, you can see an unsettlingly wonky-faced bleach blonde of uncertain age dancing around, admiring her reflection in a cracked full length mirror, and talking to herself in a dreamy, confiding voice.
‘My husband weighs me every day and he chooses all my clothes and he’s a handsome alpha male and I’m a beautiful trophy wife and there’s a pink unicorn under my bed that comes out every night and sings to me, and…’
Realising with a cold chill that this is none other than the notorious truth-molester Samantha Brick, you hurry forwards. As you do so, you hear a hysterical shrieking voice from the next cell, interspersed with maniacal laughter.
‘MUSLIMS! PAEDOPHILES! ASYLUM SEEKERS! HELL IN A HANDCART! COULDN’T MAKE IT UP! PC GONE MAD!’
An unexpected liquid splatter lands on your face from the direction of Richard Littlejohn’s cell, which feels unnervingly warm and spunk-like. As you realise he has been masturbating over a well-thumbed copy of Mein Kampf, you hurry onwards.
A twisted face at the next cell leers out at you, chilling your blood to ice. A skeletal witch-like figure with insane bulging eyes like a squashed chihuahua.
‘I’ve got a rock star boyfriend,’ Liz Jones hisses in your ear.
At last, you reach the end of the corridor. There’s only one cell remaining. A figure of medium height stands inside it with his back to you, entirely unmoving. Something about this apparently nondescript figure sends an ice cold finger running slowly down your spine.
He turns. His appearance is outwardly normal, but his eyes are alive with an insanity beyond description.
Oh my God.
It’s Peter fucking Hitchens.
The Daily Mail’s Below The Line Commentators Make You Lose The Will To Live
There’s a fundamental flaw with the concept of democracy, which it’s surprising that more people haven’t cottoned on to by now.
In a democracy, total fucking idiots have an equal right to vote.
And these total fucking idiots’ votes could quite conceivably cancel out yours.
For the full blood-curdling implications of this to sink in, just read the online Daily Mail’s below-the-line comments.
Oh yes indeedy.
That one who’s saying they should bring back the death penalty for shoplifters?
And the one who’s saying that it’s ridiculous that they need actual proof before they imprison someone indefinitely as a terrorist?
And the one who’s saying that it’s a well-known fact that all asylum seekers immediately get a million-pound house, three Range Rovers and unlimited Domino’s pizzas from the soft-touch British Government?
Every single one of these people have as much say in who runs the country as you do.
This is the collective future of our nation.
The Daily Mail’s Historical Record Is Not The Finest.
Let’s say no more about it, shall we?
The Daily Mail Thinks Its Public Are Total Fucking Idiots
In the heyday of the Jordan empire – which currently and mercifully appears to be in its Emperor Nero stage – one could not help but be struck by the look on Katie Price’s face in the pictures of her endless public appearances. The eyes of a dead shark and the smile of an estate agent.
It was glaringly obvious to anyone with the tiniest modicum of observational powers that Katie Price utterly, utterly despised the endless queues of bovine skanks who appeared to have escaped from a holding pen for the Jeremy Kyle Show, queueing up to worship their pink plastic goddess in soul-destroying suburban shopping malls that cried out for a few friendly bombs.
It was also glaringly obvious that Katie Price smiled at them only because they were buying her latest crappy ghost-written autobiography or hideous cheap-shit perfume that smelt like Morrisons own brand flyspray.
And if it was legal for her to just smash these people over the head with a brick and take their wallets, Katie Price would have been only too happy to do so.
And as one looked at the pictures, you couldn’t help but realise something else
In despising her fans whole-heartedly, Katie Price was absolutely right.
She didn’t think these people were total fucking morons.
She knew for a fact they were total fucking morons.
If they weren’t total fucking morons, they wouldn’t be queueing up for five hours to buy her tacky-ass shit and get her autograph.
And a very similar attitude is in evidence with the Daily Mail.
This is a newspaper – and a website – that despises its readership whole-heartedly. Its contempt veritably radiates from the page and the screen. You can feel every single article without exception playing the unwashed masses like a Fisher Price keyboard designed for a special needs toddler. Its journalists know all they need to know about manipulating the yahoos – you press this key for outrage, this key for paranoia, this key for moral indignation and this key to inspire a tidal wave of smug self-righteous Middle England twattery.
And on a slow news day, you can occasionally press the key marked ‘cute little animal picture’ which immediately makes the sound ‘aaaah.’
That’s why Hater hates the Daily Mail, anyway.
What do you think?