FLICKING through your local newspaper in the hope of seeing someone you were at school with sent down for GBH? You’ll see these stories:
Two grinning pensioners who’ve been married for 50 years. Well done, especially as swinging and divorce were available. But do you care that they honeymooned in Skegness and believe the secret to marriage is ‘give-and-take’? No. Nobody does, not even the relative who sent them an insincere card.
A retired person standing on a canal towpath looking downward with an expression of pure, visceral disgust can only mean one thing: dogshit. And if there’s one issue local papers lose their minds over, it’s canine excrement on footpaths. To them not bagging dogshit is tantamount to assassinating the Pope.
Someone you’ve never met has lived to 100. They’re holding a telegram from the Queen though they clearly don’t know what it is or why. Over their shoulder smiles their daughter who’s spent 22 years of weekly visits watching their inheritance being swallowed by exorbitant care home fees.
Local Council Rows
You haven’t a f**king clue who’s on the council and so long as your rubbish gets collected, you couldn’t care less. Nonetheless councillors will be pictured on waste ground claiming it’s perfect or terrible for a regional trucking hub. Only of interest when the debate turns ugly and two councillors end up in a fistfight which goes viral.
Not content with boring you shitless with the non-events of the past week, now they’re running black-and-white photos from 1962 saying ‘Remember Hookstone’s Bakery?’ Only of interest to the very elderly who scan through to spot long-dead friends.
Angry People Pointing At Things
A hole in the road. A field someone wants to build on. A speed limit sign drivers ignore. It doesn’t matter what it is, if some twat will point at it while pulling a disappointed-in-humanity face, it’s news. It’s the same dickhead they had pointing at an unrelated grievance the week before but opinionated knobs are the lifeblood of local newspapers, so he’ll be in again next week.