So this morning, against my better judgement (and due to a criminal and unprecendented lack of a book in my pocket) I picked up a copy of The Metro.
Good god, that’s a depressing rag.
Not only was its full colour, five photograph front page lead essentially a down-page gossip page item (Mick Jagger’s dad’s funeral), but the thing was – in a not especially quiet news week - littered with weeks old, press released pseudo-science guff that they probably got the work experience kid to write in his lunch hour.
You know the kind of thing: ‘Eating rotting celery cures haemorroids’, ‘Euston Station is made from Fossilised dinosaurs’ ‘Cigar smoking latest craze among Pygmy newborns’, and so forth.
Now, I know that the paper is free, and is probably written by a skeleton staff in a portakabin in Stoke, but given that it now has umpteen competitors – you know, the purple-clad irritants that stand in the middle of the pavement, legs akimbo, hurling unwanted newspapers at uninterested passersby, like London’s very own festering human fungus – wouldn’t you think they’d have upped their game?