An open letter to the Daily Mail…

April 21, 2014

How I despise The Mail On Sunday, and the Daily Mail, and everything they stand for. They are the epitome of psychopathic projection – sociopathy that manages to defend itself by assuming every member of the human race is as self-serving, rapacious and manipulative as the sociopath himself.
The happy news is that, a little like the smear against Ralph Milliband in the Autumn, the attack appears to have had precisely the opposite effect from the one the privileged elitist reactionaries at the Mail intended, as donations to Trussell Trust have surged UPWARDS over Easter, instead of drying up.
Among the many aspects of yesterday’s hatchet job by the Mail that stink is the double-standard of it. The Mail neverendingly grails against the ‘evil’ of regulation, objecting that checks and balances are just a bureaucratic waste of time that hampers market/industrial efficiency. But it’s noticeable that they only make that complaint when the regulation is imposed on rich, privileged people of authority.
When it’s a matter of desperate, impoverished people requiring aid just to stay alive, it’s suddenly a ‘scandal’ that the processes for checking how great their needs really are is – supposedly – fleeting and superficial (which it isn’t in reality – the self-contradictory report hugely misrepresented how the process works).
So emergencies that see health and even lives in danger require slow, careful, to-the-letter-of-the-law checking processes, while large-scale industrial strategies that will take ages to implement anyway, should be allowed just to happen without any oversight?
Once again, the neoliberal definition of ‘freedom-of-the-individual’ amounts to “We must never let the state impose its will on me and my friends – so let’s make it push those uncouth, smelly poor people around instead.”

squidgetsmum

The Daily Mail chose today to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, champion of the oppressed, by publishing this article today.  Here’s my response.

 

Dear Daily Mail,

I’ve got a little boy.  His name is Isaac, and he’s nearly three.  Like any little boy, he loves cars, balls, and running around.  He’s barely ever still.

A few days ago though, he was.  I took him to the supermarket to spend his pocket money, and we passed the donation basket for our local food bank.  It was about half full – nothing spectacular, in fact, mostly prunes and pasta – and he asked what it was.  As simply as possible, I tried to explain that it was for people to give food for other people who couldn’t afford it.

This affected his two year old brain fairly deeply.  After a lot of thought, he decided to spend a little bit of…

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