D.A. Prince No more the morning doorstep thumps that bring news and opinions from the public sphere. The Guardian’s laid to rest where angels sing and deadlines are no more, is grieved for where the muesli-ed tables sit, forlorn and sad. No more the Toynbee fire to heat the grate, no Monbiot to shame us from our bad earth-wrecking habits. We must mourn the fate of letter-writers with high-minded whine parted from publication, and the starrier of crossword setters — Paul, Shed, Philistine — now joined in cryptic heaven with Araucaria. And think how much we’ve lost to darkness if we cannot follow Ambridge with Banks-Smith.
W.J. Webster O tempora! The Times no more! The Thunderer gone wholly under, Silenced now its vaunted roar: The shifting zeitgeist stole its thunder. Who would follow then its leaders With their majesterial tone Disguising in the minds of readers An Oz-like voice behind the throne? It tried hard not to act its age With yards devoted to The Game And selfies on the op-ed page Conforming with the cult of fame. But true to the times that it was bred in It kept a feature one can’t omit: That was the place to be seen dead in — Shame we shan’t read its own obit.
Philip Roe When the men who rule over us dithered and blundered The presses of Fleet Street rotated and thundered The man in the street read despatches and wondered: How could we survive with no Times?
When the printers of Fleet Street grew rich and rapacious The editor’s answer was bold and audacious: He moved to new premises cheap and capacious. We lived for a time with no Times.
And it soon re-emerges with printers robotic, A style that is colourful, slick and demotic And supplements, puzzles and counsel erotic. There’s not enough time for the Times.
Now the writers, reporters and wrangling disputers No longer compete with the news from computers And tablets and smart-phones for busy commuters, We have to survive with no Times.
Sylvia Fairley The Sun has set on Sundays and I’m gutted to the core, for in its dying rays I fear I can indulge no more in Sunday morning worship of the goddess on page three, the saucy pin-up of the week, who bared her breast for me.
I’ll miss the wit of Katie Price, the lurid kiss’n’tells; no politics or world affairs, just sleaze, the stuff that sells, with footballers and stars of soap in stories that impinge on private lives, ’neath headlines wrought with puns to make you cringe.
The sunrise found me waiting in a fevered ferment, while I listened for the paper boy, but now I know that I’ll no longer feel the joy that found me leaping from my bed to keep abreast with news …I’ll take The Telegraph instead.
Bill Greenwell We think of you, your helmet dented, Your chain half-rusted, sword-edge dull, As a bold Crusader, if demented, Who’s not survived the paper cull — But think of all that you’ve outlasted That never had your shining masthead:
We lift our pure Dominion vino To those with Empire flags aloft, To Beaverbrook, who claimed there’d be ‘No War in Europe’ (Hitler scoffed And took out Poland just that day, But we salute him anyway).
When you merged with Nigel’s ’Kippers, Sadly you went up the spout: Poor Desmond’s dirty bodice-rippers — For him, alas, the ink ran out —
Frank Upton The English yeoman fighter, sent to jail; The bearded, ranting cleric, out on bail; The hunky TV love rat tells his tale; The curative effects of eating kale; The politician’s secret you unveil; The Dorset woman hit by giant hail; The housing market crisis: what’s for sale? The ‘Why-oh-why?’ repeated plangent wail; The EU types who’d force us to eat snail; The Oscar-winner’s frock, ‘an epic fail’; The breathy prose with no time to exhale; The royal scandal stories, fresh or stale; The super-scrounger you’re agog to nail; Such popularity could naught curtail! And yet today we mourn you, Daily Mail.
Your next challenge is to suggest suitable Desert Island Discs (seven) for a well-known historical figure, living or dead. Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 8 April.
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