The Soin has come a long way since it started way back in January this year. We lasted more than ten whole months, which, in modern terms, is four times the length of Kim Kardashian’s marriage to Kris Humphries, sixty times the length of Lindsay Lohan’s jail sentence, and half the average lifespan of the humble cockroach. But sadly, cockroaches we are not.
The very shining paragon of print journalism you’re currently reading was born during inauspicious times, in the midst of an Australian media environment dominated by moneyed, privately educated troglodytes who know absolutely fuck all about the issues faced by real ‘Strayans. We, on the other hand, had a vision. A vision that these supercilious pricks would one day be replaced by a new breed of pricks who are equally privileged, equally sheltered and yet at the same time, still mind-bogglingly conservative. The mind boggles.
But, all good things must come to an end. Our deeply uncompromising, deeply ethically compromised journalistic practice caught up with us in the end and landed us in very hot water. To put it bluntly, we were caught red-handed, hacking phones and the social media accounts of the rich and famous.
Perhaps it was Sinéad O’Connor’s incessant sharing of the ‘We Can’t Stop’ music video, or Bill Shorten’s subtweets about Anthony Albanese, or Noam Chomsky’s radical new profile pictures featuring robust turds superimposed onto his face. Whatever may have given us away, we would like to take this opportunity to express our deepest regrets for any careers prematurely ruined or reputations irrevocably soiled.
Before any trace that The Soin ever existed disappears into the ether, however, and our magnificent, self-made empire falls into ruins, there is one last thing which needs to be addressed head-on. And that is: get the name of our newspaper right, you fuckers.
It approximately rhymes with ‘barn’, ‘yarn’ and ‘Genghis Khan’. It most certainly does not rhyme with ‘coin’, ‘adjoin’ or ‘Des Moines’. The joke’s on us, we guess; it seems that you, dear reader, are having the last laugh. Clearly, a portmanteau combining an obsolete French expression and the name of the most widely circulated UK daily is too much to comprehend.
At the risk of repeating ourselves, there’s only one British tabloid that takes its name from a star formed 4.3 billion years ago, has eight planets orbiting it, and rises in the east and sets in the west. Don’t make us think we aggressively invaded the privacy of hundreds of D-list celebrities for nothing.
After all, we did all of that for you. Look at The Soin, look how it shines for you. Even though this publication will probably never be revived and this is in all likelihood the last Soin for the remainder of eternity, try to remember us for the understated beacon of truth we surely were, lofty and balanced enough to never, ever, ever resort to gross hyperbole or cheap emotional manipulation.
We’ve had a fucking ball bringing you almost a year’s worth of incisive, hard-hitting journalism; we were forever poised, ready to investigate life’s essential questions, such as ‘Who Wore It Better?’ and ‘Look at the Knockers on Her!’ Although we may have occasionally struggled to provide the right answers, at least we dared to dream, dared to ask the un-ask-able questions.
Think of us when you watch Tony Abbott miss the point spectacularly on the nightly news, or when you guffaw quietly at an anatomically correct penis in a bathroom stall. Because we’ll be thinking of you.
And for the last time (literally), you fucking philistines: it’s The Swahhh-n.