Farewell to the unloveliest newspaper

The <em>Sport</em> and <em>Sunday Sport</em> have gone under, taking their torrent of nipples and ma

Daily Sport

Farewell, then, to the unloveliest newspaper that ever lived, the wretchedly tacky ejaculation of juvenile chortling and tits that was the Sport and Sunday Sport.

Goodbye to the avalanche of breasts. Goodbye to the nipple count. Goodbye to the simian dribbling over bits of people's bodies. Goodbye, too, to the comedy anti-news news articles, which once upon a time jarred against their tabloid competitors, but seem pretty half-hearted compared to the kind of made-up crap we have to put up with now. World War 2 Bomber Found on Moon. Hitler Was a Woman. Bus At North Pole. Oh, how we laughed. But we're not laughing now.

There were slightly less chucklesome things in the Sport down the years, mind you. The court reports about sexual crimes, written in slightly unpleasant amounts of detail, sat in disturbingly close proximity to pictures of half-naked women, there to help you masturbate yourself into a coma. Perhaps it was all just a lot of harmless fun and I am a humourless wretch; I don't know. I just know that it doesn't seem quite so hilarious, in retrospect.

I suppose as someone who calls himself a journalist, I'm meant to be saddened by the departure of another national publication. And I'm not saying I don't understand how devastating it must be for people who have worked hard and who are now out of a job; I feel as sorry for them as I would for anyone flung on to the scrapheap at a moment's notice. But these newspapers were a cavalcade of cheap and nasty tat demeaning news-stands up and down the land by being placed next to real newspapers. For those who worked there, I'm sorry for you, but, on the other hand: welcome to the clean world.

What went wrong to kill off the Sport and Sunday Sport? I suppose the ready availability of porn on the web is the biggest factor. Why go and buy a newspaper for softcore smut when you can access a world of unimaginable filth catering for any kind of taste with the click of a mouse or using your mobile phone? It seems a bit archaic to go into a newsagent and embarrass yourself in the hope of giving your solo sex fun a few go-faster stripes, when you might as well just fire up the laptop and knock yourself out. When you're only flogging your papers on the promise of more boobs than the page threes elsewhere, with only a few ropey articles constituting the "news", you're putting yourself in a vulnerable position. And so it's proved.

At the paper shop on Sunday, there was just a gap where the Sunday Sport used to be, a void in the plastic display, the absence of a gaudy front page with an upskirt photo of a minor celebrity bending over and some paparazzo stuffing a camera into her arse. That wasn't there. And things already looked brighter because of it.

One down, several more to go. But judging by the eagerness with which the Daily Star on Sunday welcomed readers of the Sunday Sport, someone somewhere still reckons there's a market for it. Time will tell if they're right.

Patrolling the murkier waters of the mainstream media
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Boris Johnson's "juddering climax"? Don't let it distract you from his record as mayor

As Johnson finishes his term as mayor of London, his own parting shot leaves this mole feeling cold.

Initially, the feeling down here in the Mole townhouse was that Boris Johnson's "Operation Juddering Climax" tweet wasn't worth giving airtime to.
 

After all: it's an attention-seeking device as old as the hills. Sex sells; unfortunately, so does the soon-to-be-former Mayor's brand of weird bombast. So it's not surprising some press officer realised if you can get the voters to imagine Johnson in gaudens (see, Boris, bit of Latin for you there!), they'll get distracted. At the very least, it'll rechannel their disgust so they're not thinking about the fact he's a man whose past achievements include such gems as calling black people “picanninies” and, recently, suggesting “part-Kenyan” Barack Obama may have an “ancestral dislike” of the British empire.

Like a dead cat, once the possibility of an active penis is on the table people tend to get distracted.

So yes, reading Johnson's account yesterday did feel a little like supervising a class of fourth-formers who have just discovered euphemism and can't stop slipping it into their answers in class, continuing long after it stops being funny, massive shit-eating grins on their faces all the time. The temptation is always to ignore it, in the hope they'll get bored with their own supposed cleverness.

But it's actually more sinister than that. Because when Boris pulls this sort of sniggering schoolboy rhetoric out about the "climax" of his mayoralty, what he's actually doing is urging you to forget the stray pube of his water cannon, the crumpled tissue of his awful, boiling buses and the crusty sock which is his environmental legacy.

Well, here at the NS we believe a gentleman should always offer to sleep in the wet patch. So here, as a parting gift of sorts, is a short selection of some things you might remember Boris for:

The bus stock whose internal temperature “breaches legal limits for livestock”

Championing the contentious Garden Bridge

Installing a cable car that is used by fewer passengers than London’s, er, 400 busiest bus routes

Abusing his planning power in the mayoral office in what the Guardian called “an assault on democracy”

Spending over £200,000 on two second hand water cannon from Germany – which he’s not allowed to use

That's that done. This mole's off for a cigarette.

I'm a mole, innit.