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Exit, pursued by a bare nipple

As he hunkers in his lair, being fed the life-prolonging blood of infants through a drip, Rupert Murdoch must be quietly exalted today as he finally pulls the plug on thelondonpaper.

As he hunkers in his lair, being fed the life-prolonging blood of infants through a drip, Rupert Murdoch must be quietly exalted today as he finally pulls the plug on thelondonpaper. It's said that Hitler had the death agonies of his would-be asassins filmed as they were hung on meat-hooks; I wouldn't be surprised if Rupe sends a video camera to the floor of thelondonpaper's HQ today to tape his ex-staff tearfully packing brown boxes of freebie CDs and cosmetics, idly calculating how much they'll go for on eBay, and whether they should sell them now, or hold out till they're REALLY desperate.

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Even the Dirty Digger, his cultural radar no higher than that of Sir Les Patterson, can't have failed to blow chunks at the gormless witterings of his flotilla of dating columnists, who were out in full force this week to say their long hard goodbyes to employment, prospects, etc. Andy Jones was first to fall on his pork sword. In fact, Andy's been cleverly working his impending unemployed status into his column for weeks, cannily finding the tasteful crossover point between joblessness and erect cocks:

As you may recall, my impending unemployment had made me so miserable I didn’t want sex. I called it “dole queue droop”. Well, like Lazarus, my libido has arisen from the dead. I am res-erected, as it were.

Yes. Just like Lazarus. Unlike Lazarus, however, Andy, you no longer have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. But all things must come full-circle, and so, in his final column, Andy chose to end his journalistic life as it began: with a piss-poor pop culture reference masquerading as a joke:

As for my next career move, I am first hoping that Elton John or Madonna will adopt me, or, if that plan fails, to find a new audience elsewhere. I have no idea where, but there is an “Andy Jones, Man About Town” Facebook group (unedited and more outrageous), plus I have a website at www.andyjones.me.uk and I’m on Twitter.

Goodbye, Andy. We like to think that if there's a londonpaper in the sky you'll be there, celestially papping Pixie Lott's left nipple as Jesus tells us all an amusing story about a cat that has had artificial limbs fitted. Sigh.

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Laura Tait, too, chooses to end her Carrie Bradshaw-esque tales of shoes and boys as it began – with exactly the same hokey sub-Sex & the City simile:

In my first column, I wrote: “Men to us are like hats to outfits – they can be fabulous and complete you but are not obligatory by any means, and you’re far better without one than with one that hurts your head.” On that theme, jobs are like coats. A little more necessary. And while a nice one is preferable, a bad one is often better than none at all. And you’ll get cold in winter without one. Hell, maybe I’ll meet a man so rich I don’t even need a job… oh let’s do the hat thing again: maybe I’ll find a hat so warm that I don’t need a coat. Or maybe I’ll find a hat so amazing that my outfit will be fabulous whatever coat I end up in. Who knows? If you’re interested, I’ll keep you posted at lauratait.co.uk.

Or maybe you'll meet a man in your new role as an au pair – a guy who'll be your employer and your boyfriend – a coat that becomes a hat, like a hoody. Or maybe you'll meet a gay man who will employ you to pretend that you're going out with him for social reasons. His beard will become your coat. Maybe you'll find a hat that you can use as a coat. That's not an analogy, just a simple dream of finding a nice piece of material in a dumpster that can be salvaged and quilted into a garment. Gosh, dating's a lot more confusing than it first appears, isn't it?

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Meanwhile, over in TLP's alternate-sexualities department, Joshua Hunt chooses to use his adieu to really sock it to one-dimensional gay stereotypes by, er, backhandedly bitching about the pay rates of his soon-to-be-ex employer while dressing it up as a joke:

I was gutted to hear my time writing for thelondonpaper was ending. Having set aside all my column earnings for the past three months, I was just a fortnight’s pay short of having enough to buy the McDonald’s Happy Meal I’d set my heart on. In an instant, that dream was shattered….

It only remains for mouse-like would-be lesbian Katherine Richardson to do the same as every other TLP dating columnist before her, and announce that, although thelondonpaper is deader than disco, she is going to be keeping the dream alive by spinning off her now-defunct column onto a soon-to-be-defunct blog:

Although thelondonpaper is ending, GGAT is certainly not. After all, where would you get your weekly dose of schadenfreude if it wasn’t for little old me? I’ll be blogging my little bottom off at gaygirlabouttown.blogspot.com.

As the countdown to today's final clock-off time draws ever-nearer, and Murdoch sits poised with his finger hovering over the 'SACK' button, let's take a moment to remember Katherine and Joshua and all the people who made thelondonpaper what it was. No wonder it's all over…