At the End of the Day

PMT and me.

I’ve been getting in touch with my feminine side today, which is perhaps why I’ve been displaying symptoms of PMT – Post Murdoch Trauma. This is a condition under which hacks and bloggers suffer the Cold Turkey of eschewing labyrinthine streams of revelatory horror, the better to undergo a form of rehab whereby they relearn how to write about same-sex marriage, murderous nurses, soccer transfers, and Saudi women drivers.

The PMT condition involves surfing weather sites – it’s 40 degrees in New York, by the way – and ringing the Bristol Coroner’s office in the hope of uncovering something interesting about the death of Christopher Shales and another Newscorper has been fired, this time for hacking phones while working for The Sun, this is further proof that. Sorry. Small lapse. Won’t happen again.

During recovery from PMT, sick bloggers must also suffer the appalling challenge of watching BBCNews for longer than three minutes. As part of my therapy today, The Slog watched as Will Hutton told us that ratings agencies are overrated. If you can’t rate a ratings agency’s ratings, then who or what can you trust? I think we should be told, and The Slog will name the guilty men. And women of course: let’s not forget our womenfolk, one of whom it seems has been killing hospital patients, but journalists are saying James Murdoch is a liar and Robert Peston claims that John Whittingdale is a cross-dressing sorry, sorry – mind wandered again. Must try harder.

Even worse, the PMT cure involves reading the financial press. This has enabled me to posit that one European stability facility is equal to the flexibility of the Merkel, where the rigidity of the eurobank credibility is constant. The unknown x factor in this equation is the variable Rompuy of every Barroso, and the torque of the York if the cliche of the Trichet falls below the value of news is just coming in that tonight’s fired  Newscorper is Matt Nixon, the Sun features editor who was convicted of fancying pigeons and for God’s sake stop me before I accuse again.

The Duke of York has stepped down. He stepped up to the plate, after years of stepping out with unsuitable women, but then the Foreign Office stepped all over him via the good offices of the Telegraph where as we all know they are all phone-hacking bastards and whats’ more right, that’s it, I’m going to call The Samaritans. It’s the only answer.

Postscript: Lucian Freud is dead. The best 20th century painter of the nude. He never met Andy Coulson, but was in love with Margaret Thatcher. I am cured.