Unhappy Mail New Year

While you’re looking forward to celebrating the arrival of 2013, spare a thought for the pundits who labour in the service of the legendarily foul mouthed Paul Dacre, some of whose pent-up hatred of anyone appearing to enjoy anything remotely resembling a good time has rubbed off on those around him. At Dacre Towers, they’re not going to be even slightly full of good cheer this evening.

Why the f*** should I cheer up, c***?!?

The mood having been already set by Peter Hitchens’ decision to blame the murder of church organist and lay preacher Alan Greaves on “rich liberals” and ascribe the condition of his attackers to “drugs”, things could only get more miserable, and to kick things off in style has come Simon “Enoch Was Right” Heffer, who has found that he cannot take his dog into his favoured public house.

Were I the licensee, I could think of a host of reasons not to want the Hefferlump on my premises, so there could be an ulterior motive for giving that reason for barring what must qualify as one of the potentially worst pub bores known to humankind. Heffer protests that the dog occupies the food preparation area at his house and it hasn’t caused him any harm. Yet.

Meanwhile, Andrew Pierce appears to have had to wait a few minutes longer for his tube train recently, given his rent-a-rant outburst at Bob “Scare” Crow of the RMT. Whatever Crow does is by definition A Very Bad Thing, especially the recent action in support of contract train cleaners who are being paid the minimum wage, which does not go very far in London. Others may not be in total agreement.

One bright spot is the admission by Melanie “not just Barking but halfway to Upminster” Phillips that her inability to swim, and general fear of getting in the pool, is irrational. A word in your shell-like, Mel: it ain’t the only thing about you that’s irrational, as anyone involved in the drugs debate, and any moderately observant follower of The Prophet, will know by now.

But the strangest slice of New Year misery, laced with cattiness and topped with a less than deliciously unhinged nuttiness, comes from the appalling Liz Jones, whose latest offering is reminiscent of those albums chucked together by bands desperate to fulfil their record company’s contract obligations and be shot of them. Liz is unhappy with women who have a life of their own.

This is of course unacceptable to this battiest of Glendas: all those with whom she communicates must by definition be available for conversation and meeting at whatever time of the day or night Ms Jones decides that they should be. If not, she’ll enter a period of advanced sulking and dash off another column of satisficing dross about the whole thing. And she won’t be happy.

So she’ll fit right in at the Mail, where nobody else is happy. Bah humbug!