Goodbye Guardian

My dear departed Dad was right about many things (Jimmy Saville and Rolf Harris to name but two). Turns out his judgement of the Guardian was also spot on. How he mocked gently and knowingly, when, as a left leaning student, I often brought the paper home and later, as a family man, became a regular weekend buyer. As digital became dominant, it was my outlet of choice for news, culture and other interesting stuff. But sadly, we have come to a parting of the ways. Sorry Guardian, our relationship has come to an end and, how can I put this: it’s not me… it’s you. I have pressed delete and no more will I be subject to your relentless smeering and vilification of people I respect, like the elected leader of the Labour Party, and your regular entreaties for me to contribute to your maintenance.

You have some good qualities: your crusading nature as evidenced by Panama Papers, Wikileaks coverage etc and some star writers. But let’s talk about what you did last summer and how this sits what you purport to be. Virtually everyday, there was a lead article on anti-semitism in the Labour Party, which focused culpabiity on Jeremy Corbyn. Fuel on a fire fanned by the right. Shame on you.

Then there’s the constant glancing in the direction of a third party, your clear fixation with the disaffected right wing Labour MPs. If Chuka Ummuna so much as breaks wind in the direction of the Labour leadership, he seems to get four or five column inches of approbation from you.

This isn’t how you sold yourself to me back in the 80s. You were supposed to be a champion of the oppressed, a pillar of progressive values, a force for good. Not just the Guardian, but the Manchester Guardian, carrying the connotations of Peterloo and all that brings. If the King in the North had a daily delivered, surely yours would be the rag of choice.

Turns out that your values have withered, just a the prospects of a real chance for a progressive, transformative government are gaining traction. Like Vince Cable, with his exotic spresm, you know what you should be saying, but can’t quite bring yourself to pronounce the words.

This morning was the last straw. Trumpeting a PM, who presided over the murderous injustice of Grenfell, the oppression of Windrush, the folly of austerity and a pig’s Brexit, as someone who is qualified to make a pitch for the centre ground is beyond ludicrous. Did you really need a shout out from Andrew Marr that much?

So what went wrong? Did Seumas Milne gob in your avocado and hummus dip before he left? Does Matthew d’Ancona have some real dirt on you? Or is it just that you’re like all of the others, you pretend to be something I can believe in, but all you’re intereseted in is preserving an outdated status quo that doesn’t even have a three chord trick left to its name.

So it’s goodbye to Andrew Rawnsley and his nostalgia for the third way, farewell John Harris and his pseudo working class confusion, ta-ra Marina, with your caustic turn of phrase and sarcasm so heavy it could sink an empty aircraft carrier. You have used your considerable gifts to belittle so many people I genuinely despise, but not brought that much in the way of constructive engagement.

Oh and once again: sorry Dad, you were right all along.

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