I heard the news today oh boy
I’d shared houses with people dedicated to changing the world (at least one actually succeeded in that but he was very crap about doing the housework and would allow his girlfriend to pop over and do a spot of vacuuming when domestic tension teetered on a Cold War). In retrospect, I don’t care who cleans the toilet – as long as it is not always me.
When I hopped off the plane in London with my one way ticket, I was outside the South Africa embassy at the regular Friday demo against apartheid by the end of the first week. And what a wondrous first date that was for a PC womyn like myself. I’d landed myself a good lefty lad about town the day after I arrived with talk of all things anti-Thatcher and going to Columbia to pick coffee.
Said lad had good PC credentials as an ex-NUS president (oh for the days of compulsory student unionism, how on earth will future Members of Parliament earn their “P Plates”?) and now worked sedately as a media officer in a government organization. He knew the right language though to sweep me right off my jetlagged little feet, well, til I got my travelling shoes on that was. But he had one recreational habit I found most strange at the time. After trawling the press inside and out all week – he like to do nothing better on a Sunday morning than nip out for the “News of the World” and devour it in bed with a cup of coffee. The UK had so many worthy papers, with weekend supplements that could keep a homeless person insulated against the toughest winter; I found his love of the NOTW quite odd. I mean it had “Page 3 Girls” and other traditional abominations – what kind of male feminist was he?!
As I soften with age I finally get the joy of the tabloid headlines. I can shed some of that misguided seriousness and replace the frowns with a laugh. Just this morning a Daily Mail headline made my day, “Dumbledore and the bed chamber of secrets: Sir Michael Gambon's menage a trois with his wife and (much) younger lover” washed me with this wave of affectionate nostalgia and had me running to TNOW for some belated entertainment.
I am so glad to see that little piece of Britain hasn’t changed much in all this time. It’s bread and butter continues to be tales of romps or ‘three-in-a-bed”, washed down with a large helping of sport. I’d take out a heritage order to prevent the Sub Editors from getting any whiff of political correctness. What a delight to read “From Bobby to Nobby" - RANDY copper James Eardley makes an arresting sight—as he whips out his truncheon in sleazy porn films. And yes - there's a threesome in the text!
Somehow slipping between the sheets with "The Age" will never be the same again.