The G


Every true liberal loves The Guardian. There’s been surveys and everything. Sure, the relationship between principled progressives and Britain’s favourite left-wing love-sheet has been somewhat rocky during the Corbyn years, and no-one has been more vociferous than me in demanding the paper’s subversive elements are dealt with in the strongest possible manner. (Or at the very least sent regular death threats on Twitter.)

But for every shameful column doubting Jezza’s brilliance or suggesting not all Leave voters are cross-eyed racists, there’ll be another ten arguing for 100% inheritance tax or exposing the inherent racism of Thomas The Tank Engine. We may not always get along but when it’s right it’s very right and will be an important ally in Britain’s bright socialist future. Indeed, once Labour reclaim Number Ten it’ll take roughly the time needed to build a gulag and assemble a firing squad to condemn the G’s anti-Corbyn tendencies to the memory hole for good.

Sadly, it seems The Guardian as we know it may have slipped down that hole too. Because now the paper is only available in tabloid format. That’s right, the publication which for years prided itself on being a cut above the hate-filled red-tops will now have to face the embarrassment of being the same size as them. Which means progressives like me will be denied the smug satisfaction of opening a beach towel-sized broadsheet on the metro and pretending to read a riveting George Mondeo essay on the environmental benefits of bird-shit smoothies while covertly staring at the tits of the blue-haired feminist who gets on at Benton. (If you’re reading, sister, I’m the pale bloke with the beach towel-sized broadsheet who regularly pretends to read riveting George Mondeo essays while covertly staring at your tits. Fancy a bird-shit smoothie some time?)

All of which makes my blood boil. Because as well as giving me one less way to fool strangers on public transport into thinking I’m more intelligent than them, the very real fear that a Bovril-slurping cretin who usually buys The Scum or The Daily Heil might accidentally pick up a copy made me ill. Not least because it will inevitably end up plastered over their broken living room window once they realise it contains neither Aldi coupons nor pictures of frail reality stars falling out of taxis with no knickers on.

But as uncomfortable as I was with my beloved daily being read by white van drivers with tabs behind their ears and hate-crime on their minds, once I’d got over the shock I realised this could be a positive. Because the working-class – specifically the Brexit-voting variety – are notoriously stupid and gullible. Indeed, their capacity for believing any old shite is legendary, unlike those well-read, street-wise Remainers who not that long ago were convinced it costs £500 million to change the colour of a passport.

And while their stupidity should rightly bar them from voting in referendums or working at the BBC, it could also be a fantastic bonus. We already have a significant cross-section of stupid young people on board, most of whom went to good schools and know how to use knives and forks. Imagine how easy it would be to mould the brains of stupid adults whose idea of a classy night in is a bottle of a Lambrini and an ounce of skag?

Perhaps making The Guardian accessible to the revolting specimens who clog up our decimated high streets gnawing on chicken bones is a smart move. Can you think of anyone easier to indoctrinate with far-left ideology than the educationally sub-normal? And the benefit to society would be massive too, as brainwashing these impressionable goons in the ways of the left would keep them off the streets and stop them raping children. Or even better, stop them forcing innocent Muslim men to rape children.

For now, there’s never been a better time for the left-wing media to forget subtlety, embrace populism and deploy every underhand tactic from phone hacking to journalists dressed as sheiks to promote liberal values and force as many people out of their jobs as possible.

In the meantime, I’m confident the list of suggestions I sent to Guardian editor Barbara Viner will be acted upon, despite the disrespectful lack of a reply. Fingers crossed we’ll soon be treated to Jeremy Corbyn’s weekly agony aunt column, Dear Leader. And with a bit of luck it won’t be long before we see the first transgender Page Three girl. In a burqa.

What a time to be alive.