Mail menopause

I know that some people on my friendslist were baffled and upset by the recent article in the Mail claiming that depression doesn’t exist. This item from the most recent Private Eye may prove illuminating:

Stung by Allison Pearson’s vengeful final column for the Daily Mail, in which she suggested that working for the elderly tyrant was simply too depressing, the editor vowed revenge. He demanded that his features desk find a “big name” to write about why depression was nothing but a trendy disease used as an excuse by shirkers for avoiding work. Much to his fury, no-one was prepared to put their name to such a piece.

In the end Dacre had to turn to Janet Street-Porter, who duly produced a feature attacking not only the departed Pearson but also the Mail’s Liz Jones. Pearson went ballistic when she saw it, describing Street-Porter as “that fucking bitch” but missing the point that the piece was Dacre’s creation. He always takes a close personal interest in the so-called “Saturday Essay”, which is usually so dire no-one reads it. This time he spent ages amending Street-Porter’s illiterate ramblings before announcing to the features desk that now, thanks to his efforts, he “agreed with every word of it”.

The combination of these two mighty literary titans is irresistible, as demonstrated by the article’s zingy opener:

There's a big black cloud hanging over parts of the UK, and it's not going away. Not volcanic ash - but depression.

Journalism is the real winner here.

I’d be intrigued to know whether this claim by Andy “silhouette” McNab had a similar gestation:

One of Britain's best-known soldiers has dismissed post-traumatic stress disorder among the armed forces as little more than an excuse for recruits to leave the service early.

Andy McNab, the former SAS soldier now turned best-selling author, said servicemen and women “were very resilient” and that the perception that significant numbers of them suffered PTSD was wrong.

He might not seem to be the best person to question so many soldiers’ stories when so many of his comrades have openly challenged his own well-remunerated versions of real-life events, but I’m sure he had his reasons. Maybe Janet Street-Porter is his ghostwriter.

(no subject)

I went into the branch of Boots opposite Parliament last week, the first time for a while. “You will not believe,” said the eastern European woman behind the counter, “but I was thinking just today that I have not seen you for long time. I wondered if you were one of…” And with an economical but effective hand gesture she managed to convey the concept for which she may or may not have had the vocabulary, “one of the slew of MPs who recently got shitcanned”.

(no subject)

Charlie Skelton’s Bilderberg dispatches for the Guardian have been well worth reading, whether or not you were previously aware of the shadowy “elite” group’s existence, and he’s on splendid form in his final transmission:

I'm baffled to the point of punching tree trunks to witness the determination of some folk to throw themselves in front of these heads of corporations and presidents of banks and to wave their arms protectively, yelping: "Leave them alone! Let them strategise for the good of the world in peace! How could they possibly have a frank discussion with our politicians if we were privy to it? Stop this unseemly prying!" I mean, seriously. The day that Marcus Agius, chairman of Barclays, strategises for my good is the day he repays me the hundreds of pounds of bank charges he's been levying on me since my schooldays. The day that Peter Voser, CEO of Royal Dutch Shell, sits around a table with the express concern of making the world a better, more beautiful place for all of us, is the day that my arse grows teeth and eats my hat. [Guardian]

Celebrity haiku

Peter Stringfellow
and his mini baby belle
strolling by the Thames

(Pun © flaneurette)