The delicious cant of the Guardian is such a treat on a Saturday morning

One of the highlights of my week comes on a Saturday morning, when I make myself a cup of fair-trade coffee and settle down to read the letters page of the Guardian. My wife usually joins me — it’s a sort of date thing, romantic in its own way — and we sit there cackling, our cares and woes forgotten for a while. Sometimes it is the smug little commendations of some earnest article that has uncovered the suffering of an hitherto unreported minority of the population — that stuff is quite funny. But then all newspapers print letters from readers telling them how good they are. Much more fun — and fecund — are the gripes, the expressions of outrage and fury, the voluptuous revelling in acquired victimhood, the absolute intolerance of views which run counter to their own. That’s where we get our real laughs.

For example, the Guardian magazine has long since ceased using attractive young models for its fashion stuff, in an attempt to be politically correct.