Oh, it has been a dispiriting week. I have found myself questioning the very purpose of my vocation. Where does power really lie? In the hands of the elected? The righteous? The just?
No, I conclude. In the mucky paws of the Murdochs. I actually had a nightmare (I woke up screaming, much to the alarm of poor Attlee, my cat) where Rupert had become my line manager and was systematically tearing up my policy papers while forcing me to write populist propaganda on scrapping the 50 per cent tax rate.
While we might now claim that the Sun's dirty trickery backfired, the way No 10 leapt into action was peculiarly distressing. I haven't seen them all so agitated since GB announced he liked the Arctic Monkeys. Everyone downed tools when
GB made The Phone Call.
“Now Rupert, I really think you've gone too far this time. We are a nation at war, I am a leader in the face of a crisis overseas, and you are . . ."
Silence.
“OK. Yup. OK."
Silence.
“Yes, Rupert, I promise to use the spellcheck in future."
Peter roared at this point. And then slid around the office for a while, muttering that he wasn't going to take Rebekah to lunch at J Sheekey's for a "very long time". And so another day passes at the absolute command of the media. Yes, I am aware that a free press is the symbol of a healthy democracy. But, my God, I wouldn't mind if the whole lot burned in a bonfire of banality.
And that was before I saw the Labour Party advert with David and George mocked up as Jedward. How patronising to assume the British public are more interested in a silly TV show than the substance of our government! What about adverts with photographs of new NHS equipment? Imagine it: a photo of a giant MRI scanner suspended over the M1, with the tag line "Progressive funding of public services has transformed our experience of the welfare state!". That would get people talking.
To lift my spirits I went for a run in St James's Park. But it took only one lap to catch my foot and fall flat on my face. I turned to discover the source of my humiliation - a batch of cameramen, their wires trailing treacherously across the path, hoping to catch GB pounding round the park again. As I got to my feet, I had to restrain myself from shaking a fist at their sniggering faces. Bloody media. Tripping us up wherever we go.
Sign up to the New Statesman newsletter and receive weekly updates from the team
