The British Broadcasting
Corporation should throw in the towel, take down the flag, issue a refund of
the previous five years license fees, and crawl on their bellies thrice widdershins
round Broadcasting House's smashed-camera-lense strewn halls in penance for
the following crimes:
- Allowing their staff
to inbreed and produce a legion of weak chinned rugby playing human foghorns,
all named either Saskia or Jeremy, unfitted for any career outside of media
or prostitution (and a special apology is due for contributing to blurring
the lines between those two professions).
- For not only failing
to drown these twelve toed abominations at birth, but for making it corporate
policy to employ those braying media brats in roles that a five year
old child (created from a larger gene pool) could do, but which sadly are
beyond their hooting, fumbling capabilities. I refer to such monumental tasks
as: reading from an autocue without drooling or panicking and snorting a line
of Ajax; typing in titles and credits without demonstrating your combination
of shoddy education and towering arrogance; and the tricky task of remembering
to turn on the PDC signal whenever the athletics has overrun (read: whenever
the athletics is on) so that viewers might actually be in with a fighting
chance of recording entire programmes rather than having the gripping recorded
conclusion of a late night film suddenly dissolve into that episode of "Time
Team" that you recorded in 1998 but never got around to watching, you know,
the one where the blonde bint takes off her wax jacket at last, but turns
out to have disappointingly small breasts bound up in an annoyingly sensible
- Allowing finally split
infinitives on Radio 4.
- The morass of fear, loathing
and thinly disguised backstabbing that is Radio 1, the darling of the Lowest
Common Denominator and safe haven for borderline paedophiles and their erstwhile
victims (what else could explain the likes of [Someone Mil is quite
happy not to have suing him]?).
- For contributing to the
further break up of the United Kingdom by stating with a calm and casual arrogance
that anything English refers to "us", while anything to do with Scotland,
Wales, Northern Ireland or the islands and colonies is handled by "regional
- For naming a channel
"News 24" when during the only hours I get to watch it, inevitably it is showing
a mix of bitter burned out anchors and ladder climbing miniskirted bimbos
babbling about US films, fashion and fad diets, today's burning knee jerk
pop culture issues, and Tim Bloody Henman, all criminally mislabeled
as "Breakfast News".
- For measuring the worth
of a programme by counting the number of eyeballs that it attracts in direct
competition with commercial channels. That way lies "Surviving Big Brother's
Ibiza Airport Changing Room Lottery: Uncensored!"
- For no reason that I
can determine other than sadistry, producing widescreen content that ever
so carefully spills over the edges of a 4:3 television.
- For raping my memories
of all that was good and decent and special about British culture,
and replacing it with a smug, dumbed down mixture of:
- Moronic chat shows
aimed at aspiring trailer trash who slowly but steadily are developing
the "US accent", i.e. eschewing actual speech in favour of whooping, grunting
and flinging faeces.
- Eastenders, a.k.a.
the day care centre for precocious BBC brats and washed up old has beens.
- "Original" drama
that is inevitably a watered down gestalt of themes broken on Channel
4 the previous season, when they were actually thought provoking and shocking,
rather than tired and anodyne.
- Shock! Horror! Exclusive!
news designed to compete with advertising funded news-o-rama, apparently
without regard to the inevitable effect that this will have on the story
selection, presentation and journalistic standard.
- Other channels' US
yoof show cast-offs, shown six months after their third Sky 1 rerun, in
an inappropriate timeslot and edited carefully by a committee of stony
faced lawyers to remove the one or two genuinely inspired pieces of dialogue
that they manage to produce.
- Shoestring nature
documentaries on the likes of "The Narcoleptic Nosepicking Sloths of Borneo"
complete with a plethora of faked studio shots of diseased zoo refugees,
all excused by the gravitas of a tacked on David Attenborough voiceover.