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 brassiere.
• 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 correspondents".
• 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.