Pity the hack.

THERE are grim jobs, dirty jobs, and downright bloody awful ones. But possibly the worst in Fleet Street this week will be whatever poor soul has to ghostwrite Nancy Dell'Olio's new 'style' column.

Yours truly was sniffing around the Wapping bins last night and found an early draft - covered in the Editor's angry red pen, it must be said - clutched to the chest of an exhausted hack unconscious through self-medication and slumped in a nice warm gutter.

Enjoy.

Dear Nancy,

I have worn the same white shirt to the office every day for 16 years. I quite like it but the rest of my colleagues say I'm boring and to be honest there are yellow patches under the arms and the collar is so frayed it's more of a ruff. What's your advice?

Yours,

A.N.Other Crime Reporter

Buongiorno. Is easy, you silly silly boy. You wear nice yellow shirt so patches no show, I like the silky satin ones they make me feel sexio, here is a-one for you. Next!

Dear Nancy,

I've been using the same gothic eye makeup since I was a teenager but now I'm a wizened 27-year-old I think I've outgrown it. Trouble is I can't find a new look that suits me. Have you got any make-up tips?

Yours,

Winesoaked Hack

You are little older than Nancy (yes, I know! Is difficult believe I only 25!) and probably donna have a millionaire ex-boyfriend like me who still pay for house and olive-oil massages. I always find that a very light touch with makeup is best as we liedies mature, nothing too heavy, but just enough to make all the guys go a-crazy! My look is very naturale and take me only two hours to apply with trowel. Here is picture me before and after.

Dear Nancy,

I have been working in the fashion world for years but can't seem to make it pay, with the added problem that I never feel like I'm good enough. Do you have any advice how to make it as a style columnist and feel better about myself?

Yours,

Liz Jones

I am style columnist as everyone love my style. When I was on Strictly Come Dancing everyone vote to keep me in they like me so much and me so good. I suggest you try sequins and thick orange tights, or hang out with Tony Beak. He available now, we no speak much. If you more like Nancy you feel better soon.

Dear Nancy,

Every time I put a new frock on everyone demands to know where it's from and calls me a style icon. It's exhausting because I worry about letting people down and worry that one day I will put my foot in it and wear something everyone hates. I do my own make-up but I think my best asset is my hair.

Yours,

Kate, Duchess of Cambridge

You are moderately attractive girl who has fooled some of public into liking you, however you need to up your game if you want be true fashion goddess like me. Have you considered wearing a tomato-red catsuit next time you visit an addiction charity? Your hair all right but too long, maybe you should cut it all off.

Dear Nancy,

In my job I need to be inconspicuous and after decades of skulking outside people's houses I own 30 pairs of khaki trousers, two dozen grey hoodies and am incapable of using anything but a water bottle to wee in. Turning up at parties I can go unnoticed for hours at a time, at least until I relieve myself behind a curtain. How can I dress with more flair?

Yours,

Pap Erazzi

You stinky man. Why you no shave? Sit in car all day poo in bag. You need toilet training and proper wardrobe of clothes you wan keep nice. This dress from one my favourite designer, I think when you go to party people notice you more like this. Statement hats very IN this season.

Dear Nancy,

When can I have my house back?

Sven

Who you? I no hear what you say. La la la la la.

A meaty, messy business.

JOURNALISTS are often accused of romanticising their profession, especially when one of our own dies.

It's true that a tendency to lyricise and the constant criticism we get means we often talk about freedom of speech and fighting for the little man and the nobler justifications of our trade.

Sometimes that's right. More often though we deal with humanity at its extremes - crime, death, birth, heartbreak, revenge - and whether you're dealing with a wronged lover, a violent criminal or the recently bereaved, journalism is a meaty, messy business which is not for the faint of spirit.

You don't get far wearing rose-tinted spectacles. And there is no higher part of my profession nor one so grisly as the work of covering a war. It is one of the most valuable and worthy things any reporter or photographer can do, the greatest risk they can take, and of course the one most likely to end badly. It is the thing most guaranteed to impress other journalists beyond measure, an extremely difficult feat among seasoned cynics.

Today Sunday Times reporter Marie Colvin and French photographer Remi Ochlik - both of them award winners - were killed in the Syrian city of Homs as they covered the shelling of civilians by President Bashar Assad.

The snapper working with Marie, Paul Conroy, was injured. He's probably being cared for by the very limited resources of the opposition, while Marie and Remi's bodies have yet to be recovered. Their editors are trying their best to bring them all home, while the city remains under fire.

I do not know any of the people concerned, so it's not for me to write about them. Their friends will do that I am sure. And I've never been to war, a fact which makes my mother glad and me a little wistful.

There are those who, when those obituaries are written, will say we hacks treat each other better than we do others, that we show more grace and remorse when a fellow vulture tumbles off the perch than we do to the average deaths we deal with. Perhaps that is case. But then average deaths are usually due to accident, insanity or circumstance - when a hack dies in harness it's usually because they chose to take that risk.

At a memorial service at the journalists' church St Brides last year ITV news anchor Mark Austin said people often do not understand why we run towards danger rather than away from it. Usually it's for those higher goals, and sometimes if we've done it too often it's because we've become addicted to it, as we become attached to so many things in this job - the stories, the gossip, the black humour, the free drinks.

Because, you see, there are two sides to a journalist's brain. On the one hand there is a human part, the bit which knows your mum worries, that this job is bizarre, the side of you which is moved to tears when someone tells you a heart-rending tale. A good journalist never, ever loses that side to them because it is what makes them good, it gives them empathy and understanding.

On the other hand is the news gatherer, the bit of your head which is occupied with getting the right turn of phrase, capturing an image, and getting a copy of the receipt. The bit which fires up, when you are stood amid a sea of dead and rotting corpses and the human side of your head wants to vomit itself inside out and get on the first plane home, and tells you 'this is BRILLIANT'.

While I've never been to war, I've been to that place. I've sat amid carnage and wondered why I can't cry at the same time as scribbling notes and thinking 'this is writing like melted butter, it's going to sail onto the front'. When I was 18 and on my first local paper I came in to work one day to see my chief reporter crash the phone back on the hook and say to me excitedly: "There's been a murder on your patch!" And my response was: "GREAT!"

That's when you know you're a hack - when you run towards the bad things. Since then I've put myself in places where I was far from safe, where the mere fact of my presence meant my mum didn't sleep for a week or I've decided not to tell her I was there until I wasn't any more. I've stood and watched things I can't fix but tear my heart apart to see, and I've come home with a thousand-yard stare to my boss telling me to take some time off and put my head back together.

I have friends who have died and been injured. I have mates who quite literally skip when told they're going to Afghanistan. And half of me is envious of them, while the other half thinks they're nuts. Everyone else in a war gets a gun, and all we have is a pen or a camera. And half the time I can never find my pen.

Maybe we're just screw-ups, and this job keeps us out of the asylum and safely medicated in the pub. I've been on jobs that were horrendous by day and every evening, once our copy was filed, the press pack tore the town up and drank every bar in the place dry. In those circumstances the hangover actually makes you feel a bit better.

But the end result, whatever our motivation or however much of our brains is given over to trying to get a sexy byline shot or the front page, is that someone sees the things no-one else wants to. Maybe it means knocking on a rapist's door late at night, finding the right words to describe an unspeakable thing, or sneaking into a city under siege from the forces of a dictator to tell the world what's happening.

We bear witness, however unbearable we find it ourselves, and there's not a single journo dead or alive who will tell you that's not worth doing, and that usually it's as far from romantic or rose-tinted as you can get.

So while I didn't know them, I'll raise a glass to Marie and Remi tonight - and take my hat off to two brave people who didn't have to do what they did, but thought someone ought to do it anyway.

Do not adjust your mindset.

This is the British Broadcasting Service. This country has been attacked with policies of mass destruction. Communications have been severely disrupted by a year-long inquiry into the Press and the number of casualties and the extent of the damage are not yet known. Normally the NHS deals with casualties, but it's been outsourced to a TV show with terrible acting and all the usual whistleblowers are in hiding in case they get nicked. We shall bring you further information as soon as we get our arses out of this sling. Meanwhile, stay tuned to this wavelength, stay calm and stay in your own homes.

Remember there is nothing to be gained by trying to get away. We built a big wall around Britain to stop people coming in and this also stops you leaving for anywhere more sensible, like Greece. By leaving your homes you could be exposing yourselves to greater danger. Max Moseley is out there somewhere, along with Simon Cowell and Eric Pickles. We have no idea what they may do if cornered, but it will probably involve moobs.

If you remain in your home, you may find yourself without food, without water, without accommodation and without protection. But if you're old, poor, single, divorced or gay then frankly it's your own fault. Duncan Smith fall-out, which follows a policy explosion, is many times more dangerous if you are directly exposed to it. Tinfoil hats and cheap vodka offer substantial protection. The safest place is indoors under the sofa, where the taxman can find you.

Make sure gas and other fuel supplies are turned off and that all fires are extinguished, because if you're rich enough to afford fuel you will attract rampaging mobs of feral peasants. If mains water is available, this can be used for fire-fighting because the Fire Brigade has been sacked. But for the love of God don't drink it, because the Germans sold it to the Chinese and heaven knows what they've done to it. You should also refill all your containers for drinking water after the fires have been put out, because the mains water supply may not be available for very long due to drought which has turned the eastern side of Britain into the Sahel. Supplies of water are low and those who cannot pay their water services bills have the bailiffs sent round, while Tuareg tribesmen maraud the south east. Rich people are asked not to water their roses as often as previously.

Water must not be used for flushing lavatories as we have run out: until you are told that lavatories may be used again, other toilet arrangements must be made. We suggest finding a journalist to wee on instead, or if there are none to hand you might like to find someone older, younger, poorer, gayer or more workshy than you. If you do need to find something to flush the toilet with, try less valuable commodities such as liquid plutonium, Cristal champagne or blue whale sperm to fill your cisterns instead. Use water only for essential drinking and cooking purposes, or for washing if you have been exposed to any Milibands. Water means life. Don't use it.

Make your food stocks last: ration your supply, because otherwise you will have to kill and eat the parents of a small child who likes playing with the toys generally considered more suited to the opposite gender. If you have fresh badly-behaved parents in the house, use these first to avoid wasting them: other people you might wish to eat will keep for later. People with dreadlocks have no 'use by' date and can be kept in trees or tents for some years, although they can be gristly; the morbidly obese are known to rot slowly as long as they are carefully watched by state-funded carers.

If you live in an area where a fall-out warning has been given - for example anywhere north of Westminster, south or west of Westminster, or east of Westminster - stay in your Lansley shelter until you are told it is safe to come out. When the immediate danger has passed the sirens will sound a relieved sigh. The "all clear" message will also be given on this wavelength. If you leave the fall-out room to go to the hospital, look for work or attempt vigilante justice, do not remain outside the room for a minute longer than is necessary as you will be either arrested, sued or eaten.

Do not, in any circumstances, attempt to work. Policy fall-out makes it too expensive for anyone to employ you. Those already in work are permitted to dick about on the internet. Those who are not may be able to do 'work experience' as part of 'reforms' and 'training' once the all-clear has been given but money will only be paid to those who are not old, gay, poor, or militant secularists, who are known to bomb people with science and reason.

You cannot see it or feel it, but early reports say Prescott is manifesting. If you go outside and are contaminated, you will bring danger to your family and die of incomprehensible verbal diarrhoea. Stay in your shelter until you are told the flatulence has passed or you hear the "all clear" on the sirens.

Here are the main points again:

We're screwed.

We shall repeat this broadcast in two hours' time, unless the whole place gets blown sky-high by someone on social media as some kind of twisted terrorist 'joke'. Jokes are banned.

In the absence of any ideas, have a cup of tea and pray in a solely-Christian fashion that someone else thinks of something.

Boxing, (n.): the act of fighting with fists.

TWO blokes stand up and knock the crap out of each other. People gather to watch, and money changes hands about who will win the fight. Pictures are taken, cameras roll, and blood is spilled.

If you see it, do you call the police or stay to watch the sport? Because according to events in Germany yesterday the above scene is perfectly safe and reasonable - as long as it is roped off.

Now, I understand the copy of your average sports reporter about as well as I do Japanese or algebra, so it's taken me a while to wade through the first-person outrage and dramatic colour in all of today's papers about 'controversy' and 'dark day for our noblest sport' blah-blah.

But, fundamentally, what happened is that several men got involved in what is known as 'a brawl'. First one bloke spat in another bloke's face, then (after fighting him officially, and losing) marched up to another bloke at  press conference prompting what tabloids might in other circumstances call 'a fracas'. Blokes went toe-to-toe, threats were made, bloke swung punch with hand holding bottle, bloke's mates got involved, bloke started brandishing a camera tripod and smacked his own mate on the noggin.

It's none of it brilliant behaviour, but no-one died, no-one was seriously injured, and it's the kind of stupid willy-waving by idiots I've heard in a thousand court cases and seen first-hand on nights out. The main difference with these events is that normally they are fuelled by alcohol, and in this instance it seems to have been precipitated by those two consistent partners-in-crime, testosterone and stupidity.

Now it seems that because the men in question weren't drunk, it wasn't 3am and there wasn't a girl involved, the police want to question everyone and press some charges. After all, we can't have that, can we?

Except all the blokes involved are fighters. They've been trained, over decades, to be bigger and more powerful than the other bloke and to smack him around according to a set of rules in order that people can make millions of pounds and have the thrill of watching blood be spilled. Is it really a surprise to anyone that fighters are a bit fighty?

I can't help thinking that half the outrage is from sports reporters who were sat in that press conference and suddenly realised that the two blokes they watch and comment on in the ring are REALLY big and REALLY close and REALLY annoyed. Once they got over the squealy terror, they've all started harrumphing about what a shameful day it is for the sport.

Then there's the likes of those who call boxing a gentleman's pastime, who think everyone involved loves their mum, sets an example to children, follow Marquess of Queensberry rules and give the other feller a fightin' chance, doncherknow.

Perhaps once upon a time. But it's always been about money, blood, and power, and smacking the hell out of someone who's got in the ring because he wants some of yours. It's one of the least sporting sports there is, because it doesn't leave much room for luck or plucky underdogs. And it's never going to be much different to two guys knocking ten bells out of each other in a pub car park; it's just we've taken those men, fed them up and taught them how to do it properly.

It seems bizarre to me that we're fine with gladiators in the Coliseum, but seriously expect them to play together like nice boys on the bus home.

And it's more than a shade hypocritical that punching someone behind a rope while millions bay for blood, drink beer and gamble on the outcome is socially acceptable, while landing a smack when no-one had the chance to put a bet on it first is considered a crime.

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