The Sun newspaper is probably, almost certainly, the most squalid newspaper in the UK and down there with the lowest forms of journalistic lowlife on the planet. It is the love of its owner’s life, the Dirty Digger, Rupert Murdoch. It is what he must see when he wakes up every morning. It is repulsive. And today – yet again – there is another new low. The newspaper that lied consistently about the victims of Hillsborough, that prints hardline far right political opinion as facts, the paper that slaughtered Charles Kennedy back in 2003 when he opposed the invasion of Iraq. Truth and conscience free journalism.
Today’s victim is Paul Gascoigne whose life appears to be on a never ending journey to a living hell. Maybe he is there already.
Gazza’s demise must sell newspapers, otherwise why would vermin like Murdoch giving it extensive coverage, including some desperately unflattering photos of the poor, wretched man? The former football great was wearing only a dressing gown, reported the Sun, only for it to pop open and for him to accidentally expose himself to passers-by. Just so we know it really happened, the Sun publishes on its website pixellated pictures of said incident. It is, adds the Sun, “a new low”. It’s a new low, all right. In journalistic terms, it’s down in the sewers.
This odious rag has plenty of history with Gazza. It’s in-house doctor recently gave her own diagnosis that the former footballer would die soon. And it has always been there with any amount of tittle-tattle, anecdotal story or voyeuristic photograph to put the boot in to a man who is as down as down can be.
For God’s sake, the man is an alcoholic. He is very ill. He needs help. It is not his fault he happened to be the last truly great English footballer and it is not all his fault that his life has spiralled downhill since his career ended. He could not control his life, we end up where we are today, with his face, and other parts of his body, all over the internet, thanks to Rupert Murdoch.
Does Murdoch have no shame? Of course not. The man is totally without a heart. He is, after all, the man whose journalists hacked a dead girl’s telephone. Nothing matters more than the story, even if the story is deeply personal, deeply sad and when we all know it could end in tears.
I do not know how anyone who calls themselves a journalist can work for Murdoch’s Sun, unless they hand in their principles and their conscience at the front desk every morning and collect them on the way home. They are hardly likely to ask me to write for them, so it is easy for me to confirm I never would.
Is this what a free press really is? A newspaper owned by a hard right American citizen who will go to any lengths to get a story, even if it puts that person at great personal risk, if they’re not dead already.
Murdoch is another person on whose grave I would happily dance to celebrate his passing. I reserve this type of anger for a few people, the likes of Thatcher, who ruin people’s lives on a daily basis. I hope he lives long enough to see the death of the printed newspaper. It would be the one thing that would break his heart. It seems nothing else could.
