damnedenglish

The Imperium that was the BBC ( affectionately known as “Auntie BEEB”), the camp bastion of quintessential Englishness and Empire, is now a basket-case Emporium for executive eunuchs, high-jinks hype, crutch(sic) bags, homely comforts and harem intrigues. The fairer sex troop through the bunkers of Broadcasting House, London SW1 marshaled by “DG” Mr. Mark Thompson, with shrieks of joy as the shrapnel of “women’s issues” pockmark the glass ceiling of HQ.and send viewer ratings off the radar screen.

Get it on girls; for the likes of Ms. Germaine Greer, Ms. Shami Chakrabarti, The Right Hons. Harriet Harman, Diane Abbott et al., and the other petticoat Liebfraumilch apparatchiks of socio-liberalism. Whinge, whinge on endless domestic woes, anti-depressant dependence, darling kiddie’s “special educational” needs, divorcees in dire distress, with diktat diversity to boot, all the dredged drudgery from the political correctness of “public service broadcasting”. The knockdown price of everything and the value of nothing.Rejoice at having to fork out the licence fee tax for the ammunition of matriarchal materialism and gender-bender PR by proxy. The feisty fillies, in their BBC regulation designer fatigues, don’t do first past the post and don’t take prisoners.

Arsenals of lipstick, hairspray and candy-coloured camouflage; kit-bags of creams, pills, powders, potions and ”babe” rations to keep our boskie Boudiccas ahead of the game in soporific locker-room rumour, chat-room gossip, game-show glitz and cookbook journalism on demand from the middle-England and welfare Hausfrau wallowing in virtual Wonderland, in the real unreality “Get Me Outta Here” TV and Radio schedules. Well heeled, armed and dangerous our casting-couch sans culottes 20-30’s something Cindy look-er-likes march to the front in the kindergarten combat zones of eco-concerns, man-hating sisterhoods, health hysterics, credit-card cretinism, equality evangelism and “Botox Baby, have I got the celebrity news for you!” Run for your diapers guys, to Mr. Murdoch’s Moloch SKY “pay-the-piper, play-the- tune” nursery for watcha’ sport sheilas, ad nauseum. Mel Gibson take heart, the pom-pom Pommies are busted, literally.

 BBC Director General, Mr Mark Thompson (born 1957), Oxford education, orthodox Latin Catholic, married to beautiful Jane, Jewish American expert on Mary Shelley (author of Frankenstein) three kids, holed-up for R&R and domestic certitudes in des-res Oxfordshire. Extramural pursuits- making his own pasta , and with ambitions to fly. The dough maker (last reported remunaration £834,000) high-flyer is the incumbant custodian of public taste, decency and deference at our “Auntie BEEB” and has clearly gone AWOL (Absentminded With Our Licence). Poor Mr. M.T., just another quasi-public servant in the painted dug-out of post-Blairite mediocrity; still the order of the day.

In 2004, excavated from Channel Four ( colloquially, and often, referred to as Channel Porn), he brought along the road-map “if it’s shlock, it sells”, so prothlesized by Mr. Michael Grade, then resident at the “TV station of the nation.”

Our ill-shaven, puppet-master generalissimo of PSB (Public Service Broadcasting) is a slippery customer, an appeaser of effete fashionable trends, a Spanish jellyfish moving with the surf of triviality and tidal stream anguish of secular, multi-cultural middling England. Fitted out in his bullet-proof vestment interests in plebian preoccupations and pap-populist pulchritudes, Mr. M.T., and the Pink Junta, strafe the public sensibilities with “shock and awe” ordanance of cretin celeb Kultur, in-your-face egalitarianism and, you guessed, the rouge brigades of sanctimoniuos, pushy sofa-suffragettes that prime-time the 24/7 slots. Reverently defended by his batman (oops, batgirlie) CO [Operations], Ms. Caroline Thomson -yet another recruit from the Mr. Grade school of stuff-you, cigar-chewing, OTT impresarios. The full frontal urbanite insurgency that targeted the very citadels of cultural rectitude. By appointment to crass-roots populism, jargon loving Thompson & cohorts now “touch base”, blow the bugle, and raise the bog standard on the roof of showbiz Auntie BEEB. Doctor Who where are you now?

Bite the bullet Johnnies, the Mom’s are Mistresses of the Universe, and say Hello! to jerry-can, O.K.! killing-joke New Jerusalem.

So push-button punters TURN OFF- TUNE OUT switch on your PC, iPhone or whatever, click onto bbc.co.uk/blogs/ or the Facebook Twitter pages of the over-paid, over-pampered TV & Radio marionettes, [ especially the tabloid Radio 5 Live] and blitzkreig the network with a fusillade of Shakespeare’s Hamlet -

‘To be or not to be– that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles…’

[ May as well also ask where the £2billion deficit in the BEEB’s pension fund, effectively your money, went??? It’s no wonder Mr. Thompson is shady to reveal how much his showbiz “talent” is paid!!! ]

Don’t expect your e-mails to get a reply from the BEEB, or read out on TV or Radio- You have to get past the “researchers(?)”

For a  de-bunking interview of Mr. Thompson you may refer to :

“Oh come on, Mark Thompson, make an honest woman of the BBC”

Rod Liddle -March 7, 2010 The Sunday Times  Link: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/rod_liddle/article7052477.ece