LITTLEBRAIN: The inconvenient truth about Britain's worst columnist

The preposterous figure of Richard Littlejohn has apparently been reincarnated as something called a Daily Mail ‘columnist’. That’s a new one on me. Wasn’t Keith Waterhouse called a columnist?

I’ve no idea what a columnist does, but I would imagine it involves a lot of first-class research, investigation and considered, astute opinionating. There’s probably a hefty salary thrown in, too.

Littlejohn is in Florida as usual this week, delivering a lecture on how an MP is being paid too much to waffle on about rubbish he's not qualified to talk about. That’s right, he lives halfway round the world and yet somehow feels entitled to judge British politicians and pontificate that Britian is going to hell in a handcart - while enjoying a pay package that overshadows MP's pay by around 600%.

Don’t people like Littlejohn have any idea how ridiculous they are?

What astonishes me is that anyone, especially in my trade, takes him seriously. Littlejohn is a circus act. Come to think of it, that puppy in the Andrex adverts has considerably more gravitas than him.

Yet, in some quarters, he’s treated as a proper person. Richard used to have his own show on Sky News, and has been honoured as 'one of the most influential "journalists" of the last 40 years'. The Guardian even reviewed his turgid, critically derided book as if it were an authentic contribution to English literature.

The only thing authentic about this old fraud is his hatred of Britain, hackneyed, tiresome hypocrisy and self-importance.

I didn’t christen him Littlebrain without reason. This was the man described as a 'medical mystery' when doctors discovered his head contains nothing but gollywog stuffing and mucus, and that the walnut sized cluster of cells euphemistically described as his 'brain' is in fact located in his scrotum.

Once he returns from his gated mansion in Florida, he will embark on a tour of Britain, lecturing schoolchildren about political correctness gone mad, and teaching them how to spell fone-ettik-lee. We can assume he won’t be making it up.

We are asked to believe that he is a born-again Bernard Manning just 'telling it like it is' - including his contempt for foreigners and regular derision of 'poovery'. But according to the Graun, he is obsessed with homosexuality and is himself an immigrant to his adopted country.

All you need to know about Littlejohn is that the rest of the world ignores him, while here in Britain thousands of people believe he's a proper writer and should probably be the next Prime Minister.

In one sense, I suppose you could argue that Littlejohn was a success, since he gets paid a whopping £800k a year for his job at the Mail, despite even his own readers starting to realise he's just a lying, intolerant, misinformed, bilious old twat of a shit who thinks his readers are so thick that they'll lap up whatever nonsense he vomits up in his crushingly unfunny columns.

That inconvenient truth has not deterred his continued employment by the Mail, even though sales are plummeting and profits hitting rock bottom.

Paul Dacre's ridiculous obsession with ‘Dickie Littlebrain’ is just another example of how out of touch newspaper editors are with their audience, and the very concept of journalism.

As a result, the Mail is facing the looming prospect of staff cuts and ever decreasing circulation in the not-too-distant future.

But you won’t find Littlejohn fretting about joblessness in his turreted mansion.

Just as MailOnline gets enough traffic to celebrate its dominance of the British newspaper website arena, so Littlejohn, too, thinks that the little people are actually visiting MailOnline to read his column, ignoring the truth that the vast majority are turning up just to take the piss and marvel at the fact that such a loathsome bore is capable of such dim-witted rubbish week after week.

A more self-righteous, deluded ass you’d be hard-pressed to find outside of, er, the pages of The Daily Mail.

But our esteemed ‘columnist’ will relax in the rear seat of his limo or down on the Keys, tucking into the finest food paid for by his massive newspaper salary. And to hell with the dwindling readership, flood of negative comments and utter lack of respect from any other writers.

He will continue to leave a trail of faeces-stained, poorly constructed analogies as he sits in America tapping away at his typewriter, lecturing the rest of us on how we’re all responsible for Broken Britain and elf'n'safety gone mad.

In the great debate about nonexistent political correctness, this freeloading, flatulent, bile-spouting fool is about as relevant as the Paul Dacre's opinions of journalistic integrity and press freedom.

Also see Tabloid Watch for more discussion of today's Littlebrain column, including the story of Uncle Dick's abject inability to use Google.