Last weekend I was unable to get either the Saturday Guardian or the Sunday Observer. So I did something unusual: I bought the Sunday Times.
Despite (you can guess how this will end from the first word of this sentence) the pleasure of Dame Maggie Smith, Julia Roberts and a fascinating analysis of Lady Gaga, I felt ill at ease within those pages.
Maybe it was the acerbic wit of AA Gill that finally put the nail in the coffin of the reading experience but I know that in the future I’d rather go without a weekend paper than sink to the depths of The Times. The whole tone of those volumes was bitter and a space that this Guardian reader should never venture into again.
It feels a bit like leaving Radio 4 for Radio 1: it’s just wrong. It doesn’t work. It can never feel comfortable.
I feel sullied.