The Daily Mail: A ship full of twits

Go hard or go home right?



Just for a change. Let’s talk about me. 

People often ask me how reading the Daily Mail has changed me, the most common questions being:

  • Are you a racist now?
  • Have you started sealing yourself in some sort of cancer proof tube at night to stop the onslaught of cancerous material from all the white bread and poor people in and around your house?
  • I’ve heard it changes the shape of your penis, can you confirm?

The sad truth is that none of these things are true, apart from the penis thing, which now looks like Richard Littlejohn and Quentin Letts kissing. Three months in and The Daily Mail has mainly changed my life in so much as my time spent thinking about the Daily Mail has gone up by over 400%. Just have a click on the life pie if you don’t believe me:

the life pie

Here are some other hilarious and unforeseen ways that reading the Daily Mail has started to affect me.

1) The work thing

Work relationships are souring. It goes either one of two ways:

  • Someone who themselves is an avid Daily Mail reader sparks up a conversation upon seeing the artefact under my arm and everything goes swimmingly until they suggest I ‘smash a polack in the face to loosen up‘ while I visibly recoil.
  • In the middle of a conversation about how the slaughter of Dolphins absolutely cannot continue while I still breathe I shuffle and drop the contents of my arms, as I hurriedly bend down to pick them up my eyes meet with those of my talk partner, we both look down to see ‘Dolphins cause cancer’ on the front cover of the Mail.

Either way I’m fucked. As someone who doesn’t like football and regularly pulls people up for making sexist comments, I already exist in a very shaky work space. Add this to proceedings and I’m segregating myself dangerously. My career is in serious peril.

2) ‘Droppings’

I’ve become easy to track. I’m like some radioactive rabbit from an 80’s B-movie running around the inner city shitting right wing hate words on every flat surface I find. All any would be assassin has to do to smash me up is follow the trail of droppings:

photo 4 (1)
At home…
photo 1 (1)
At work…
photo 3 (1)
At play…

I always have at least eight copies of the damn thing with me wherever I go and I can’t get rid of them. They seem to be replicating at an unbelievable rate, like racist Gremlins who got wet. I find myself trying to get rid of them by surreptitiously leaving 2 day old issues on top of the stands they give out the Metro from like I’m in that shit prison movie with Michael Caine that dads like. I’ve taken to wandering the train tracks leaving pages here and there to slowly get rid of issues, but I hate littering so this makes me feel really bad. My only hope is that some illiterate hobo is following me picking them up because he’s mistakenly assumed I’m leaving behind porn.

3) The clothes don’t make the man, the Daily Mail does 

On a more positive note, it’s been stated that reading the Mail has made me dress better. An odd outcome, but not one I find unwelcome. Embiggen the picture below to decide for yourselves.


Yes those are Mallards on the polo shirt.

For Realsies though

In reality reading The Daily Mail is like doing a surreal logic puzzle on a daily basis. It’s exactly the same as Dr. Kawashima’s Brian Training, if Dr. Kawashima was a flagrantly sociopathic nazi. Because it comes dressed in the costume of one, even after three months, it still fools me into believing it’s a real newspaper. It pretends to have facts and contains pictures of people I vaguely remember from somewhere, so it seems like all the other papery news mongers, but really it’s not. It’s the newspaper equivalent of a stick insect, it looks like a stick, but it hates you and everything you stand for. The trick is to work out it’s not real and nothing printed in it can be taken seriously before you believe it and accidentally say something horribly racist in a business meeting. It’s russian roulette with opinions.

Over the last three months I’ve found that there is always one point in every issue, one story which pushes its dark misanthropic nonsense that little bit too far and snaps me back to reality. Suddenly, as I re-evaluate everything I’ve just read in light of this new knowledge the paper unravels in front of me into the drivelling, incoherent flat pack dross house it really is.  It’s at about this time that my arms always instinctively recoil in terror.

I’d like to take you through the process using today’s paper as an example:

1) Fat People 2: Back in the habit

Decorating the front cover is an interesting story concerning sugar legislation. Oh interesting! After scrupulous investigation the Daily Mail have discovered that McDonalds, Tesco, Nandos and every other lard shoveller in the land have unprecedented access to our government; they force them to pump sugar into our very eyes as we sleep. WOW! I am outraged! Those wanky companies!

2) War weary wankers

Inside said paper lies the lamentable ballad of Phillip Hammond. Sad Phillip can’t sleep at night because the UK public are ‘War weary’. AHHHHHH! Apparently nobody in the UK wants long drawn out wars anymore, we’ve all got fatigue from the last one, what we want are short snappy wars, straight in and out, bish bash bosh fish and chips. This makes Phillip hold the tip of his penis with nervousness, there’s nothing he likes more than a long drawn out war. Phillip! I feel so bad. I’m going to tell everyone I know that we should have nice long wars instead. It’ll be alright mate. 

At this point, I’m on board. This seems like real news, I can get down with this.

3) What my stepfather saw when he was dead

Fuck off.

Here, in the middle of the Mail, lies the turning point for me. The story of Sir Alfred Ayer, philosopher, thinker and extremely smart man. Billed as the Richard Dawkins of his day, he completely denounced the idea of, and even the word, God, as nonsense. Yet this is not what the Mail is interested in. The Daily Mail today report on an incident at the latter end of Ayer’s life in which he choked on some salmon. While his brain was deprived oxygen and his body lay convulsing, slowly shutting down, Ayer’s had a vision of heaven, of ‘a divine being’.

This vision, created in the oxygen deprived brain of a frail and dying man, is enough for The Daily Mail, not only to claim that Ayer’s life was a complete fucking joke, but also to prove the existence of heaven.

Absolute dross.

It’s here that I feverishly turn back the pages. Upon re-looking at the story about sugar I realise that the only people the Mail spoke to was the National Obesity Forum (AGAIN!) and even they don’t even know how much access McDonalds really have, they just assume it must be more then them. They’re guessing! I turn the page to Phillip Hammond’s sad story, the one that moved me so much, upon closer inspection I realise that Hammond is the Defence Secretary for the UK, of course he wants a nice long war, he needs a fucking paycheck!

The whole thing is a big mess of wobbling bollocks! They messed with my fragile emotions! They made me care! They tricked me.



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