Question: What is the one thing you cannot afford to be if you plan to make a name for yourself by exposing someone else’s secrets?

Answer: thin skinned.

Julian Assange, feels “contaminated” by personal probing, poor dear. I have considerable difficultly in believing that Assange’s revelatory exertions are a product of his disinterested, big-hearted largesse: the whole Wikileaks enterprise is an exercise in a pompous ass’s self promotion. Nothing remarkable about that, I suppose, but when something that really is all about him turns into something less than flattering that is all about him, he takes his ball and runs home crying to mummy.

Poetic justice at its most satisfying.