…demanded the nazi stormtroopers of Obi Wan, just as the Swiss border hove into sight. No amount of ewoks jumping security barriers on motorcycles can save him now.
In much the same way that the Licence Fee Stasi presume that all addresses possess TV receiving equipment – very accurately. No ewoks. No hoverbikes. Unwillingness to provide immediate access to premises triggers immediate guilty judgement and posting to Tie Fighter/Stuka school to provide dead biomass for target practice, or at the very least ten thousand years of servitute as a sexual drone on Grand Moff Himmler’s super star-destroyer the Bobba Tirpitz. And there goes the legend of how furry latex glovepuppets defeated the might of the British Empire.
Which takes me to my first point. Top slicing. Whatever that is, it sounds viscerially hideous. Replace the phrase ‘top slicing’ with the phrase ‘lupine fist sodomising’ and there’s exactly no modification to the final outcome of any sentence constructed with lupine fist sodomising as a central component.
I would rather know all my money’s being wasted in one place by known incompetents given to in-jokes about the corporation’s no-doubt incomparable catering services than wasted keeping ITN limping along just until the next general election. And C4 limping into the next commercial break. No amount of Peep Show could justify that. That’s a lie. A small amount of Peep Show would easily justify that, but I digress. As bloody usual.
Lupine fist sodomising the licence fee is bad voodoo. Sure, maybe people don’t like the Beeb, maybe Alesha Thingy Dixon is a fine-lookin’ ball of fluff out of her depth as a judge of quiantly antiquated dance-bobbins. Maybe the BBC is evil for trying to compete with the intergalactically self-possessed rich, filthy-rich, bitch-ass bumhole Cowell. Maybe lupine fist sodomising Auntie, I mean Auntie’s inflation-pegged net income, is exactly what the Evil Powers demand of serious candidates for high public office if theywant patronage. It’s easy to bash about the BBC. I object to the entire production of Strictly Come Whatmay from the word go, not the schedule-juggling thereof. I object to huge cakehole on legs Tess Thingy’s employment in the first place, let alone if it is morbidly cruel to suck her vital life-juices out to keep her undead co-host from decomposing on live television. I object to her husband and his little gimlet eyeballs and his stupid hair. I object to John Humphries. I object to Question Time, which seems to me to be the televisual equivalent of an underground cockfight with loaded odds. I object to Eastenders as a matter of basic human principle. I pretty much object to anything that isn’t BBC4, Radio 7, iplayer or Rachel Burden. Or Lucy Porter. I wouldn’t for a second contend that this means that the BBC should be shafted and all it’s money be given to charlatans. No sir.
So, I suppose what I’m saying is this really. Pay the damn licence fee. We all know it’s Enforcers have carte blanche to suspend all rights and priviledges, given that they are the dictatorship’s tax collectors, we all know that the World Service is funded directly by the Foreign Office and you’d rather listen to that than anything on Radio 2, which self-evidently isn’t funded by a top-tier cabinet executive agency. Just knuckle down and make that thirty-second or less phone call to arrange the direct debit. You can even use your own bank account if you want, though I’d not run that risk myself. Once that biscuits been bitten, you can get back to the benign face of British reality, the BBC, and use it – as many do – as a institutional punch-bag, or as I do, to provide a voice to think dirty thoughts about, especially if the owner of the voice is a tiny little token-female thing from Croydon. Certainly not Sue Perkins.
And what happened to Mel?