So the Guardian, that great defender of common liberty, that doughty defender of press freedom, that powerful champion of the voiceless, caved in like a little crybaby girl the minute the secret police came knocking at the door. Yes, of course, Mr Secret Policemen, the Editor cried - watch us smash up all our own computers! See! Look, I'll smash my iPhone too, and my wristwatch!
The paper that loves Leveson, the tax-fiddling rag that wants to keep the lid on Hugh Grant's encounters with crack-whores, home to the certifiably lunatic Lady Toynbee, is no more than a fully compliant member of the big-State establishment. If there was a competition to become the Pravda and Isvestia of Britain's political class the Guardian would win it by miles. A paper so socialist-liberal that its balls have been re-absorbed and regrown as Cameronesque man-tits, a tittle-tattle newsrag with all the temerity of a goose, a chiselling, crooked, distorted little dungheap of second rate writers and fourth rate intellects and not even fit for use as arse-wipe.
Dear God - and they wonder why we need Murdoch.