No, No, Nadine.

Tuesday 18th January

At 7.15 this morning the Wolf Moon was still hanging in the sky like a massive dirigible. As bright as last night and as huge, it hung over the farm and followed me round my walk. By 7.52, as the sun rose from behind perfectly formed clouds, the mist cleared, but that howling moon hadn’t moved. The world was white and blue, I slipped oh the ice three times and used up three tissues as my nose dripped like the early morning dew. Three planes left pink trails in the sky blue sky.

I got home, finished my yoga and Pak Choy, made breakfast from last nights stir fry, unzipped a banana ate two dates, washed down with an oatey milk latte and set about the day.

Tuesday is sort of busy, but not so busy that I can’t fit in a foamy bath with my new bath pillow, which the old git has hung on a hook attached to the shower door.

But today I’m aware that I’ve taken to musing. The real spectre of death hangs over me, not because I’m ill, but because as the days rush towards 2042, I know there is nowhere to hide. Thinking about the end of my life is a new thing; how I fill my days; when to stop an argument so as to not waste another minute on nonsense; turning the telly off when the rubbish comes on; getting into bed earlier so I can get up earlier; acknowledging all the changes that are happening before my eyes, and the acid reflux that our government induces.

But I turn to Nadine Dorries our new culture secretary. She hails from Liverpool, did not declare her fee for appearing as a celebrity in the jungle and as far as I’m concerned has about as much culture as a yeast infection. Attacking the BBC on the grounds that she is helping old poor people is about as justifiable as eating a packet of ginger nuts to help the red headed members of our society.

My father said I was never to say I hated anybody but, in her case, I do. I hate her lack of humility, I hate her smugness, I hate that she is in a position of power and that she’s fucking up my BBC – after all we pay for it – I hate her cynicism and her lack of insight. In short I dont like her very much.

The BBC is a public service without it I woudn’t be here. Michael Macintyre wouldn’t be here, Graham Norton wouldn’t be here and Dr. Who would have imploded on a planet somewhere near Croydon. The idea that the BBC should be funded by advertisers, the idea that good old Auntie beeb should have her airways sullied by greedy sponsors is as abhorrent as she is.

Being impartial is what the BBC does. I had many run ins with them, refusing to play by their rules, but in the end you learn that by giving an audience both sides of a story they can finally make up their own minds.
Some say she has a vendetta against the BBC, well the Tories have always attacked the Beeb for being too progressive. Left wing comedians, left wing reporters, left wing weather reporters, left wing commentators. Do me a favour, the BBC is as establishment as they come, and whatever you sling at it the BBC still, somehow, retains its dignity. Which is more than Nadine Doris does.

When I started, alongside Victoria Wood, Julie Walters, Gary Wilmot – you name them, I sat next to them in the BBC canteen eating the famous Beeb porridge, which had been soaked over night and was creamy and unctuous. We all started back in the 70’s when producers and directors, sound bods, camera operators, writers and comedians, created legendary programmes for the British public. We all got lost in the corridors of that wonderful circular building which is now luxury flats and ‘The Good Morning Britain’ studio.

The BBC represents the World Service, Radio Three, it birthed 6 Music, BBC Three, it gave us Sir David Attenborough. Our licence fee has funded priceless moments from The Proms to Jules Holland. It has introduced us to thought provoking documentaries and led the way into exposing the rights and wrongs of our society. Of course the Doris’s of the world have a vendetta against the Beeb, progress never comes from the ruling party, it comes from the underdog who is tired of being shat on from a great height. Nadine – with her tweeting and expenses, her employee daughter and her high heels, has as much right as anybody to stand for Government and assist in changing things, but not at the expense of biting the hand that feeds her.

Enough that pubs have closed, restaurants have closed, theatres have closed, music venues have closed, hospitals and clinics have closed, schools are fucked, the green belt is fucked, all under the paternalistic leadership of a bunch of greedy wankers. Enough that since 2010 we have been the victims of unfettered Conservatives who have about as much insight into the lives of the majority of the UK as Prince – sorry, Common Andrew, it’s a case of, “enough already”.

From The Yorkshire Post;
‘A veteran and highly successful television screenwriter once said to me: “The BBC is like the NHS. It’s huge, it’s unwieldy, it sometimes gets things wrong, but it’s still better than any of the alternatives.”

The cynical notion that Nadine’s diversionary tactics will draw a line under Boris’s bungling is assuming that the British public are deaf, dumb and blind.

Lest we forget ‘In the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king.’

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