Tuesday, January 16, 2007
News!
There is a place in Britain where nothing happens. There is a place in every town in England where no bad deed is reported. There is a place in your home where nothing more serious than Andy Murray's latest graceful exit from a tournament is discussed. Where is this place? Whence is this wonderous spot where the World outside ceases to exist and where only the cosiest, loveliest news will doodle-do? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Breakfast on BBC1.
For the love of God have you ever seen anything quite so inane in your entire miserable, mugger-dodging life? Smug, overpaid and overfed (I'm looking at you Declan)presenter-clones all out-Buerking each other to try and be the most tearsoaked and lovelorn.
It is 12.23pm at the moment and their web-page features a winter fuel campaign for the elderly, something about Britain's disappearing high streets and one of fat Declan's things on ISAs. THAT IS NOT NEWS. THAT IS BLUE PETER FOR CARING SIXTH-FORMERS. And if I see one more trumped-up advert for a BBC programme disguised as a news item I will shit myself or someone very close to me.
The front-page of today's Guardian carried an interesting story about a rift between MI6 boss Sir John Scarlett (you remember him) and the Government, and in particular Blair and Goldsmith. The piece included pieces of information that, if proven to be true could mean that Goldsmith misrepresented himself to the House of Lords and would put Blair in yet another difficult position. Any mention on the BBC's morning news programme after 8.00am? My eye, there was. Instead we got their resident sports-prick to pretend to fall over a hurdle for ten minutes. Twat.
It makes me angry each and every morning and yet I continue to tune in. Why? Because it's the BBC. Let that sink in. The BBC. That used to mean more than an interview with an ex-cricketer who hasn't won a pro-celebrity ballroom dancing competition.
As you can tell I am not a fan. It makes me angry, but I'll tell you what makes me angrier: I'll bet Dermot Murnaghan still calls himself a journalist. He's not fit to lick Jon Snow's high heels (and that's another story you won't see tomorrow morning).
For the love of God have you ever seen anything quite so inane in your entire miserable, mugger-dodging life? Smug, overpaid and overfed (I'm looking at you Declan)presenter-clones all out-Buerking each other to try and be the most tearsoaked and lovelorn.
It is 12.23pm at the moment and their web-page features a winter fuel campaign for the elderly, something about Britain's disappearing high streets and one of fat Declan's things on ISAs. THAT IS NOT NEWS. THAT IS BLUE PETER FOR CARING SIXTH-FORMERS. And if I see one more trumped-up advert for a BBC programme disguised as a news item I will shit myself or someone very close to me.
The front-page of today's Guardian carried an interesting story about a rift between MI6 boss Sir John Scarlett (you remember him) and the Government, and in particular Blair and Goldsmith. The piece included pieces of information that, if proven to be true could mean that Goldsmith misrepresented himself to the House of Lords and would put Blair in yet another difficult position. Any mention on the BBC's morning news programme after 8.00am? My eye, there was. Instead we got their resident sports-prick to pretend to fall over a hurdle for ten minutes. Twat.
It makes me angry each and every morning and yet I continue to tune in. Why? Because it's the BBC. Let that sink in. The BBC. That used to mean more than an interview with an ex-cricketer who hasn't won a pro-celebrity ballroom dancing competition.
As you can tell I am not a fan. It makes me angry, but I'll tell you what makes me angrier: I'll bet Dermot Murnaghan still calls himself a journalist. He's not fit to lick Jon Snow's high heels (and that's another story you won't see tomorrow morning).
