Your soft newsprint tickles my hand as I gingerly take you from the pile. I can’t wait to get inside you, I’ve been thinking of it all day. I spread your sweet sweet pages open wide, and devour your every word. You whisper your stories in my ear, telling me of stale news and uninspired narrative. I get to the fourth page and moan, the sub-par journalism is too much for me to handle. But I go on, I must fulfill my carnal desire. I am a masochist at heart, and reading you offers something no other publication can. You are so bad it hurts. And I like it. Don’t listen to what the others say Spectator. I like you just the way you are.