Basil Ransome-Davies I always treasured Auntie. She was such a damn good sport. Thanks to BBC steam wireless I was entertained and taught. She had lofty Reithian standards and she never sold them short, But Auntie isn’t quite herself these days.
We had ITMA kicking Hitler with a touch of the absurd; We had talks and foreign music on the high- falutin’ Third; The Home Service kept us civil. Public service was the word. Don’t Aunties love to cling to settled ways?
Then the market, brute and powerful, came along with shark-sharp teeth. It was build the corporate profile now, forget the dreams of Reith. You want to mourn the Beeb that was? Just leave a funeral wreath (Forgetting Jimmy Savile, if you please).
What’s left after the scandals, the largesse, the Birtist blight? A micro-managed omnishambles, scorned by left and right, Whose populist agenda — keep it simple, safe and light — Is eating umpteen million licence fees.
D.A. Prince When I have fears that it might cease to be, culled by some spineless vengeful government whose plot to sabotage the licence fee turns on the argument of how it’s spent; when I fear ‘public service’ thrown away, sold to the dodgiest bidder with a taste for game shows, adverts, chatter, everyday endless banality, good gone to waste; that’s when I cling to Rev. and Radio 3, Today, the shipping forecast, In our time, programmes in depth on art and history, even the drenching gloom of Scandi-crime, and trust for all its faults the BBC can hang on and see out the century.
Alan Millard These tribute lines are hard to write. The reason — simply this: That while my thoughts are thus engaged I’m rueing all I’ll miss, There’s Radio 4 and Woman’s Hour, the Play this afternoon And, even worse, tonight’s TV, unless I finish soon. I’m keen to laud the BBC and render praise in rhyme But not to forfeit listening hours or precious viewing time; I need to follow Eggheads, watch whatever follows on, Then catch up on EastEnders (not the same with Lucy gone). Of global fame and world renown, the matchless BBC Has, from the days of Mrs Dale, meant all the world to me, The shipping forecast bids me sleep and wakes me with a smile And all that’s broadcast in between makes living life worthwhile. What other service meets the mark with programmes guaranteed To entertain, inform, delight and answer every need? There’s more to praise but, having toiled beyond the watershed, It’s almost time for Newsnight now. Take further praise as read!
Adrian Fry Paedophile scandals execs try to shake off, Vacuous programmes like Strictly and Bake-Off, Wittering airheads on Radio Three — I say let’s close down the whole BBC.
Cokeheads from Hoxton, their salaries hefty, Greenlighting comics as long as they’re Lefty. Chaps in Compliance reacting with glee — I say we wind up the damned BBC.
Camp antique dealers and chefs sporting dickies, Stripped across daytime to occupy thickies. In primetime, car chases from CCTV — I say let’s put down the poor BBC.
News that’s now ninety per cent speculation, Severance schemes that are pure peculation, Digital channels no one wants to see — Stop it all, gentlemen; make me DG.
Katie Mallett Poor Auntie’s reputation Is trampled in the dirt, With media accusations Of hiding shame and hurt And paying tons of money To those who did the least, In fact she looks as tawdry As a pier-end show artiste.
But still she educates us In science and the arts, With drama and true stories She’ll move our minds and hearts, So no matter what has happened Within the BBC Of all the world’s broadcasters She’s still the one for me.
Your next challenge is to step into the shoes of a well-known writer of your choice, living or dead, and submit a poem or piece of prose in praise or defence of something you would not expect them to champion. Please email entries of up to 150 words or 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 11 June.
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