Earlier today, Anton Vowl linked to this advert for trainee reporters at the Daily Mail. I’m not looking for a job at the moment, but something about the phrase “200 words on why you think you could be a Mail journalist” got my attention. And so, this:

Waking up this morning, I discovered I’d slept 16% less than the previous night. Extensive research of my prejudices revealed that this was due to a new European directive on sleeping, and I immediately called several self-appointed experts who slammed this decision to wake up early. I skipped breakfast, having discovered scientific studies that proved corn flakes, milk and being in a kitchen before 10am all cause cancer. Turning on the radio, I listened for thirty seconds before turning off in disgust. Didn’t they realise that on this day at some point in the past, some British people had died somewhere? A letter to the BBC followed, complaining how their political correctness gone mad meant these important anniversaries weren’t being noted. I then went out and noticed that so-called scientists hadn’t predicted the rain that was falling, which clearly shows how global warming is a myth. I kept my distance from the wheelie bins that littered the street, knowing each one contained a spy camera operated by a feral hoodie, reporting all my movements to his masters in Brussels, ready to give my house away to a gay asylum seeker. My life is hell, but at least I’m not a celebrity.

Do I get the job, Mr Dacre?

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