‘I mean, we’re re­ally sup­posed to lis­ten to an­cient scrub­ber les­bian bands while dump­ing on Kylie?’,

The Irish Times - Friday - The Ticket - - Front Page -

ECI­SIONS, de­ci­sions. What’s a girl to do? If you’re the sort of per­son who reads mis­er­able, point­less newsprint, then you prob­a­bly al­ready know that the boss lady job is up for grabs at

I know, I know. It won’t be a real job in, like, two min­utes. The sort of peo­ple who “read” news­pa­pers are, face it, ei­ther dead or fad­ing fast, and we’re all bet­ter off with­out the geri­atric musk. I’d have to be a loser to want that gig, right?

You are so wrong. Do you have any idea how many po­ten­tial abuses of priv­i­lege come with be­ing a boss lady? The party in­vites! The front row for the spring col­lec­tion! The hand­bags you can prom­ise to bring “straight back” be­fore for­get­ting! “No more sto­ries about nu­clear dis­as­ters. No more sour out­burts from the fem­i­nazis in The Ticket”

Look­ing back, I am so glad my re­cent po­lit­i­cal ca­reer didn’t take off in the way many of you had hoped. The more I think about it, the more I re­alise that a news­pa­per edi­tor’s life is just the life for me.

Now more than ever, you need me as your edi­tor. As a lady I’m al­ready half­way qual­i­fied. And I’m pas­sion­ate about news. Not the coma-in­duc­ing stuff about bonds you have buck­ets of in this rag. Hell, no. I mean real news. Who was that skank Jor­dan was with last night? How happy is Posh to fi­nally get a baby girl? How mad is she that cer­tain lesser Spices have at­tempted to up­stage her with preg­nan­cies of their own?

The or­di­nary Pa­tri­ces and Pa­tr­ishias of this coun­try have had enough al­ready with the bond mar­kets and Colonel Gadafy. Last week I saw that same blurry footage of the tsumani at least 14 times. The story was ev­ery­where, like a huge, en­com­pass­ing wave of some kind. No mat­ter how many times I shouted “I know!” at my iPad, no help­ful app ap­peared.

As your new edi­tor (I’m drop­ping the and bits) I prom­ise to stop this kind of over-re­port­ing. From now on it’s a big deal for two days. Af­ter that, if you can’t pro­duce a tragic kit­ten-in-a-bucket who sur­vived the swells, then it ain’t news no more.

News­pa­pers don’t have to be de­press­ing. If we put our minds to it, the can de­liver all the news that’s fit to blog straight to your phone with a zoo baby guar­an­teed on ev­ery scroll.

No more sto­ries about nu­clear dis­as­ters. No more sour out­bursts from the fem­i­nazis in The Ticket. I mean, we’re re­ally sup­posed to lis­ten to an­cient scrub­ber les­bian bands while dump­ing on Kylie? Did I miss a tsunami here? Be­cause, where I live, The Slits need hus­bands while Kylie is a shin­ing ex­am­ple for any­one who wants to grow old with­out re­sort­ing to read­ing news­pa­pers.

Just look at all the things Kylie has done to lib­er­ate the gays. As any­one who was lucky enough to see her play­ing the bon­gos on that guy’s but­tocks last Wed­nes­day can at­test, Kylie is a class act. We want to read pieces about what a god­dess she is.

So here is the real news: even in her 40s, Kylie is still get­ting around that stage al­most en­tirely un­aided. You go girl.

On pages three to five, a tribute to Knut the late po­lar bear in pic­tures.

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