We all have our own weirdo.
That person who rings at least once a week, proclaiming some controversy or other regarding the council, the NHS or some other organisation.
We tolerate them, we print their letters, in the hope that once, maybe, they may come up with something sensational.
And then they do. No, it's not a world exclusive on how Zimbabwean people are repressed or an insider scoop that will bring the council down in one fell swoop.
No, your weirdo has a muffin bearing what he or she claims is the face of the Virgin Mary, or John Lennon, or Mother Theresa.
You diligently get the pictures and blow me, if you tilt your head to one side, in the correct light, you can see it, there does appear to be a face!
So you write up some words and the news editor plonks it on page three for the next day's paper and wait for the fallout...
This, ladies and gentlemen, is what it's all about.
Because the following morning, once the paper hits the stands, while nipping in to the shop to pick up 20 fags and a Daily Moron, you realise that everyone in the queue is talking about page three, laughing, holding the picture up to the light.
They're enjoying it.
Yes, they're mocking the story, trotting out the usual "must've been a slow news day" bullshit, but carrying on about how they'll tell their mates about this at work.
Now, forgive me, but this to me is what it's all about. Yes, we all love a major scoop, exposing corruption and fighting for the under-represented, but we also like a good laugh. A real lump of good-old local news fodder.
But now, enjoyment of stuff like this seems to have disappeared from newsrooms. Every trainee appears to be so full of themselves - and shit - that this is beneath them in some way.
They sneer at stories like these, tell you constantly that they're not newsworthy, that this is a waste of their time.
Wankers, the lot of them.
I don't know whether it's a subconscious attempt to legitimise themselves in the post-hackgate world where they call themselves 'journalists' instead of 'reporters', but it pisses me off.
They all seem obsessed not with understanding what makes a great regional paper, but with furthering their own career, with what they believe is their own inevitable rise to the head of the 'wanky-shit-we-read-to-look-intelligent' desk at the fucking Guardian or some such.
Or they want to write about shoes.
Well, fuck them. Give me a cracking set of pictures from a Warhammer 40,000-themed wedding any day of the week.