Did you ever find yourself reading a book, an article or some piece of trashy hack journalism and think... That's me they're describing!

The new football superstar, captured in grainy black and white on the happiest day of your life...before you descended into the realm of bitter fantasy, sucked dry by million-pound contracts and damning interviews. Even on your death bed, they never let you forget you were just a council-estate kid with one particular talent, who got too big for your boots.

A politician of overwhelming courage, a life dedicated to public service and a conscience bordering on saintly...one taken-out-of-context photograph, and it's all over. Questions asked, rumours paraded as facts in that oversized vehicle of gossip and allegation...

You know you should stop reading the papers, refuse to fall for all that airbrushed deceit, unplug from the multiplex of distorted truth, disconnect from the media altogether...

But then how would you know I exist? For I am Death, and I bring destruction.