It’s History of Journalism week and the title “was it The Sun Wot Won It?” is reverberating as fervently as it has every election since 1992, but possibly on a smaller, less political, more “good-god what more can I say about Kinnock’s wispy locks” way than you’re average psephologist. He had a tough ride, our Kinnock, I bet the image of her husband and that infamous light bulb has never left poor Gladys’ side; and she never even read The Sun. (Annoyingly, in an age of social media, news aggregators, Google and it’s unloved step-child, Bing, there are no official statistics as to how many people a year get a light bulb stuck up their jacksy. Because there would’ve been a good joke in there somewhere…) In terms of essay writing, as our dear Tracy Beaker used to say, black curls piled high in a pre-emptive Russell Brand back comber’s orgy of a hair–do; “I’d rather drink a cup of cold sick.” Its no wonder our generation are such a poetic kind. With each paragraph built around the classic PEACE architecture, (Point, Evidence, Analysis, Cross reference, Evaluate) my brain feels like its been trapped in a working microwave with Zoella. Don’t get me wrong, politics, history; they’re the stories that make mankind great, but they’re also precautionary tales, and in that way, they’re cocking depressing. And so, my essay for life: So what’s the Point? To keep bloody going, that’ll help me. Evidence? I’ve heard they don’t make coffins like they used to. Analysis? Deforestation? Cross-reference? I like hamburgers Evaluate? When I read this column to my dog, does she just pretend to listen?