Week 396, and the phone-hacking affair continues, prompting onlookers to wonder how much more pus can possibly seep out. Rather than lancing the boil, the official apology seems to have pricked a hole in an entire dimension of fetid, boiling pus, and sent it belching and bubbling into our world.
More arrests. More searches. More claims about who was hacked – celebs, sportsmen, politicians all had their privacy invaded. But let's not forget the real victims here. What about the tabloid journalists? Not just from the News of the World or the Sun. All the tabloid journalists. Spare a thought for them.
Because it can't be easy being a tabloid hack at the best of times. Sure, there's the camaraderie, the sense of power, the rush of skulduggery, the thrill of feeling like one of the chosen few who can see through the Matrix but these are illusory compensations, sweatily constructed by your quaking, sobbing psyche in a bid to counterweigh the cavernous downside: the awful knowledge that you're wasting your life actively making the world worse.
Chances are you're quite smart. And you probably love to write – or did, once, back then, before . . . before the fall. Now you're writing nothing but NYAHH NYAHH NYAHH ad nauseum. You use the only brain you'll ever have to puke out endless gutfuls of cheap gossip or crude propaganda. Half the time you're wrecking lives and the other half you're filling your readers' heads with nakedly misleading straw- man fairytales. Every now and then something might come along to temporarily justify your existence: a political scoop; a genuine outrage . . . but do you build on it? No. You retreat to the warm cave of your celebrity chef shag-shocks and your tragic tot death- porn double-pagers: wasting your life actively making the world worse.
I suppose the best way to cope with the dull, constant, pulsing awareness that you're wasting your life actively making the world worse is to somehow bewitch yourself into believing you're actively making the world better. That by writing about a footballer's bedroom exploits you're fearlessly exposing the ugly truth behind the wholesome public image and blah blah role model blah blah fans' hard-earned cash blah blah sanctimony blah. Hey – whatever works for you, yeah? Dress as a priest if it helps. We all know you're just grubbily recounting a sex act for our fleeting amusement, like a radio commentator describing two pigs rutting in a sty.
Another strategy, I guess, would be to focus on the fun of the job, to see it as one long naughty jape. To swap tales about Fleet Street legends of yesteryear and consider yourself a fellow swashbuckling pirate. Hey, what about the time you disguised yourself as a doctor tee hee and the time you blagged your way on to the Emmerdale set ho ho and the time you spent three hours rooting through a dustbin hurr hurr. No, please, please, don't tell us now – save all this for your memoirs: MY LIFE AS A NON-STOP TITTERSOME RAG WEEK PRANKSTER.
Successfully forging the belief that tabloid journalism is a worthwhile use of your brief time on this planet must require a mental leap beyond the reach of Galileo. This is one reason why so many tabloid stories are routinely peppered with lies – if their staff didn't continually flex their delusion muscles, a torrent of dark, awful self-awareness might rush into their heads like unforgiving black water pouring through the side of a stricken submarine, and they'd all slash their wrists open right there at their workstations. The newsroom hubbub would be regularly broken by the dispiriting thump of lifeless heads thunking on to desks. Each morning their bosses would have to clear all the spent corpses away with a bulldozer and hire a fresh team of soon-to-be-heartbroken lifewasters to replace the ones who couldn't make it, whose powers of self-deception simply weren't up to the job. Who couldn't cope with the knowledge that they were wasting their lives actively making the world worse.
And now – on top of all of these trials and indignities, on top of the harrowing leukaemia-of-the-soul their career choice inflicts upon them – now their job has got even harder. Because for a while, at least, wasting your life actively making the world worse was relatively easy. You could pay someone to root through someone's dustbins. Then, when the early mobiles arrived, you could get a £59 frequency scanner and sit outside a soap star's flat, surreptitiously recording their calls. And when phones went digital, there was the voicemail wheeze, which made life even easier. You could sit at your desk illegally invading the privacy of strangers just by pushing buttons.
But now, having abused all those tricks, like they abused their talent – not for any noble cause, but to find out which girlband member snogged which boyband member – those easy games are up. And it couldn't have come at a worse time: with plummeting sales, the need for sensational stories is higher than ever. All of which means all those people wasting their lives actively making the world worse will now have to expend colossal effort in order to do so: like prisoners forced at gunpoint to dig their own graves – but with a rubber shovel.
There is no fate more tragic. Pity them. Pity them hard.