One hundred paid subscribers
When I started this august publication, and put my shoulder to that wheel, I had one goal, and one goal alone. To surpass the paid subscriber count of Dominic Cummings within a single year.
Thirteen months have passed since that I set myself that target. When I began my journey. And I’m afraid to say this, but we must always hold a candle; my Twitter followers/fanbase/slaves have seriously let me down.
Thousands of paid subscribers. Look at that opaque verification tick. There’s such a presence to it. An authority. Credibility. Compare it to the sickly humiliation below:
A hundred piddling paid subscribers? What is wrong with you? Have you got any idea how much a subscription to the Times is? Sixty Five sodding quid a month. I’m practically giving it away at eight pounds a month. But I can’t even convince a healthy fraction of my tens of thousands of adoring fans to take this generous act of charity.
I have put my blood, sweat and tears in to this Substack, just to watch thousands of you mince in for the free articles for a jolly then sod off when it’s time to get your round in. I cannot put to words how disgusting that sort of behaviour is. It’s evil. Pure, undistilled evil. If I had my way, all of my long term free subscribers would be subject to North Korean style intergenerational punishment. Their great-grandchildren working in labour camps, bow legged and half starved. Descendants condemned to pay for the sins of their father in perpetuity.
Give me your money.
Give it to me.
I want it.
Give it here!
I want it!
For the chosen elect. For those who stood up to that Bandit of Barnard Castle, the below is for your eyes. And your eyes alone.