There’s a certain kind of magic that only newspapers have.
Not the digital version on a screen. Not the curated snippets we scroll past on a phone. I mean the real thing: the broad sheets of paper that rustle and fold, the smell of fresh ink, the smudge of print left on your fingers. The weight of a Sunday edition that practically demands you set aside the whole morning to do it justice.
Newspapers aren’t just a source of news. They are, for me, a ritual, a companion, a symbol of curiosity and culture. They are one of life’s simple, enduring pleasures — and one I have loved for as long as I can remember.
I’m talking about the proper newspapers — the broadsheets that you have to wrestle with on the breakfast table. The ones that, if you’re not careful, send your coffee cup flying as you try to fold them into something manageable. The ones that insist you slow down, sit back, and read.
A proper newspaper doesn’t lend itself to multitasking. It’s not for glancing at in snatched moments or while half-watching television. No, a newspaper demands — and rewards — your attention.
It’s part of why I love Sundays. The Sunday papers are a ritual in themselves. They spill across the kitchen table in satisfying layers: news, culture, business, opinion, the glossy magazine, the review section. You move from hard news to long features, to the columns you always read first (because we all have our favourites), to the crossword or the cartoons.
There is something deeply comforting about this rhythm. About the way the Sunday papers structure the morning — or, indeed, the whole day.
And sometimes, the newspaper itself becomes an event.
I remember vividly the Guardian Open Weekend in 2012 — a festival of ideas where Alan Rusbridger threw open the doors of the Guardian’s offices to readers. Talks, panels, debates, workshops — a celebration of journalism and thought. It wasn’t just a paper telling its story; it was inviting you in to be part of it.
And then there’s the FT Weekend Festival every September at Kenwood House. A glorious blend of conversation, culture, politics, and a chance to see the faces behind the bylines. A living, breathing extension of what a newspaper is at its best: a platform for ideas, a meeting place for minds.
When I think of newspapers, I also think of the people who were, or are, devoted to them.
Peter Cook — the great satirist — famously obsessed over the papers. He could spend hours immersed in their pages, searching for absurdity, inspiration, or simply amusement. It wasn’t passive consumption. It was active engagement: spotting the gaps, the inconsistencies, the stories behind the stories.
Or I think of Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau in The Front Page (and its remakes like His Girl Friday). That fast-talking, wisecracking world of hacks on a deadline, chasing a scoop, trying to beat the presses. Hot metal type, phones ringing off the hook, the smell of ink and sweat and ambition.
That’s the romance of newspapers.
But beyond the romance, there is the vital importance of what they stand for.
Independent, investigative journalism.
The kind of journalism that uncovers what powerful people would rather keep hidden. The kind of journalism that takes time, effort, and — crucially — courage.
All the President’s Men taught a generation about what reporters could achieve when they followed the story, no matter where it led. Woodward and Bernstein. Watergate. The long, painstaking pursuit of the truth, source by source, fact by fact.
That’s not something you get from an algorithm or a clickbait headline. That’s the work of journalists dedicated to their craft, backed by newspapers willing to give them the space and support to do it.
And then there are the voices that shape how we see the world: the columnists, the commentators, the correspondents.
Foreign correspondents like Graham Greene, who brought distant places to vivid life — not just the facts, but the feel of a place, its smells, sounds, tensions. Or Alistair Cooke, whose Letter from America managed to be both intimate and sweeping, helping generations understand the quirks and currents of the U.S.
These were writers who didn’t just inform. They transported. They invited you to see the world differently.
For me, newspapers have always represented that possibility: the chance to connect with something larger, to be part of the world’s conversation.
It’s probably no surprise, then, that when I was at university, I dreamt of being a journalist. Of chasing stories, asking questions, uncovering truths. I even interviewed (unsuccessfully, as it turned out) to become a producer at the BBC — hoping to get my foot in the door of that world.
And though my path took me elsewhere, that love has never left me.
I still feel a quiet thrill when I pick up the papers each morning. I still get a twinge of envy when I see a byline on a brilliant piece of reporting or commentary. I still admire the craft, the care, and the courage that go into making a great newspaper.
And yes, I still prefer the paper version.
There’s something about the physicality of it: the heft, the texture, the ritual of turning pages, the ink that sometimes smudges your thumb. It’s slower, more deliberate. It asks you to linger.
In an age of speed, of skimming, of endless updates and notifications, that slowness is a gift.
It’s easy to think of newspapers as belonging to the past — a quaint relic in the age of Twitter threads and TikTok reels. But I don’t see it that way.
I see them as more important than ever.
Because newspapers, at their best, stand for depth over distraction.
They stand for accountability over outrage.
They stand for the patient, painstaking work of finding out what’s really going on — and helping us all understand it.
And they remind us that not everything can, or should, be condensed into a headline or a soundbite.
So yes — I love newspapers. And I always will.
Because they are more than just paper and ink.
They are curiosity made visible.
They are our link to the world beyond our doorstep.
They are a daily invitation to stop, think, and engage.
And in a world that moves faster than ever, that’s something worth holding on to — even if it gets a bit of ink on your fingers.