The Birth of The Daily Scrotum
It all started in a damp little corner of a pub called The Ferryman Inn in Bablock Hythe, Northmoor. Quentin Thrustbucket, a man with a name as ridiculous as his ideas, sat hunched over a stack of newspapers, a cigarette (don’t tell Pete or Sally) dangling from his lips, and a bottle of something strong within arm’s reach.
Quentin had once been an eager journalist, determined to expose corruption, unveil grand conspiracies, and perhaps win a few awards along the way. But somewhere between reading about yet another tax increase and yet another scandal involving someone called Nigel, he had an epiphany.
“This is all absolute bollocks,” he muttered, tossing a newspaper aside. “Nothing but boring, recycled drivel. If I have to read one more article about the housing market, I’ll set myself on fire.”
His colleague, Percy Butterwump, a man whose only ambition was to make enough money to afford a slightly bigger teapot, looked up from his table. “Well, what do you suggest?”
Quentin slammed his hands down on the table. “News needs flair, humour, nonsense! It needs… balls!”
And thus, The Daily Scrotum was born.
From that day forward, the paper took the most mundane headlines and injected them with scandal, absurdity, and just a hint of outright fabrication. Where the Times might report “Prime Minister Addresses Economic Concerns,” The Daily Scrotum would go with, “Prime Minister Confirms He Has No Idea What He’s Doing, Orders More Biscuits Instead.”
Instead of covering global warming with dry statistics, The Daily Scrotum ran with, “Earth To Humans: ‘I’m Too Hot, You Idiots’.”
It was a roaring success. People who had never cared about the news before suddenly found themselves laughing at it, sharing it, and—most importantly—buying it.
Quentin sat back, cigar in hand, and watched as The Daily Scrotum took the world by storm whilst Pete poured and bought over the customary Pint!!. “Finally,” he said, grinning. “A newspaper with some cojones.”
