In the beginning there is the breathless morning wait, seven days a week, no respite. The dealer in his rusting white van. The reassuring rattle-plop-scutter of a regular supply, landing in the hall. If he is late, or fails to arrive, sufferers may be forced panicking on to the streets to seek a hurried replacement, possibly the Telegraph, Sun, or, in the most desperate circumstances, the Daily Mail. But research shows that an impure supply can effect untold damage upon the nervous systems of those unfamiliar with certain world-views. It rarely stops there. A couple of seemingly harmless shots of the Guardian leader, or a glimpse of a netball report on the sports pages, and before long anything will do to stem the terrible craving.听Hello! (See Jordan and Peter in their stunning gold-sequined bedroom!) Take a Break (My lovers are all window cleaners), Marie Claire (I lost eight stone and he still married my sister). As with all addictions, there is the shameful, dirty feeling, the inky fingers telltale stigmata of a life spiraling out of control. As the disease, for doctors increasingly view it as such, takes hold, the subterfuge begins. Secreting copies in the boot of the car, embarrassing companions by reading over someone's shoulder in a queue, pretending not to mind when a spouse has first go at the cricket reports. Couples part, children flee the nest as back-numbers spill out of rooms like advancing lava. Counselling may help; aversion therapy, where patients are encouraged to create papier-m芒ch茅 sculptures from the day's editions, has had some success in Massachusetts. In common with all addictions it's important to spot early warning signs. Small children asking for the Dandy instead of Top Trumps cards should be carefully monitored and teachers alerted. Newsagents now report worrying increases of multiple buying, a common excuse being that customers are collecting the Express for elderly neighbours. Beware the rail passenger who leaps, slavering, upon a discarded Mirror left on the seat by a previous reader. Eventually rock-bottom is reached and it is time to isolate the sufferer from the vicious tentacles of the print media; pity the pathetic soul, incarcerated in solitary confinement, whose only solace is the label on a sauce bottle, or the instructions IN CASE OF FIRE pinned to the back of the bedroom door: tragic victim of an information-laden society. |
