Apart from the cricket, the main event of today was the first edition of the new Berliner Guardian. Mostly I love it, though I was a bit pissed off the other week when I found out they were ditching Pass Notes, which has always tickled me.

You can imagine how furious I was this morning when I found out that they'd dropped bloody Doonesbury. There'd been no warning that Saturday's was to be the last strip - it just wasn't there today. A panicked email to a Guardian functionary hammered the message home: I wasn't simply failing to find it, it had been dropped.

So this is where I was going to have a full-scale rant. However, the Guardian has already cravenly given in to the will of the mob. That's very pleasing: Doonesbury is intelligent, dry, restrained and ironic. In fact, it's a little like the Simpsons in that it's useful for proving to the hardcore sandals 'n' muesli faction among the paper's readership that American humour is no less sophisticated than ours. In fact, if you looked at some of the rest of the cartooning in The Guardian you might rapidly come to the conclusion that it's much more sophisticated. Apart from Martin Rowson - who, as far as I'm concerned, is the God of Cartoons - there's precious little on offer. Steve Bell at his best is funny, but when he can't think of a good gag he settles for vicious abuse that's as clearly designed to play to the prejudices of the paper's readership as are rants about asylum seekers in the Mail. Posy Simmonds? Harry Venning? They sometimes raise a smile, but nothing more. As for Dix, well, I'm sure he's a top bloke, but his cartoons are bloody miserable.

I like the Berliner format. In fact - I was thinking this as I walked back from the paper shop, weighing it in my hands - in a strange way it's kind of... kind of, well, sexy...

I think I'm spending too much time with the papers.