William Frederick, on the BBC
I’m a British chap. Well, someone has to be, don’t they? In the UK we have the BBC. The BBC are our national broadcaster, funded by the good old TV Licence paying public. The BBC are known for constantly whining on and on about their funding. “How can we produce quality output without another £100 kazillion quid (compounded up of course, year on year, just like what the bankers do). It’s only what we deserve for our balanced, tolerant and enlightened, artistic genius”. This author disagrees.
The BBC. A national asset or just a bunch of over privaledged toffs sponging from the TV License paying public? You must decide!
I used to be a supporter of the BBC but now I have slipped away from them and joined the ever growing throng of people that think they are nothing but a great big fat waste of money. (Or what our American cousins would call a boondoggle). No longer do the BBC stand for truth, honesty and fair play. Now they have their own political agenda. The BBC have become the home of the luvvie. A club for posturing leftie do-gooders. A shrine for the lacklustre. A haven where interns (the useless offspring of the well connected) stand around all day, drinking lattes. You can identify an intern very easily by simply asking their name, which will be something like Lettice, Peregrine, Epiphany or Rafferty. Of course, if you listen to their ‘heads-of’ (everyone at the BBC is the ‘head of’ something or other), they are all fabulous and we should consider ourselves grateful to have them. …Okay Yah! What’s more they are criminally over paid! (See comments for clarification)
Let’s take a look at some of the issues that have recently made off with my goat. The Beeb or Aunty (to use their 1970s sobriquets) is a nationalised broadcasting organisation that used to be known for its quality output. This must be true because Whoopi Goldberg used to say so in one of their self-advertisements.
That quality has at the very least become questionable and some would say that it has simply gone, which will become more apparent as I progress through the following few topics.
Hooded Crow (aka Hoodie) attacks the home of William Frederick! (Author and decent chap).
On Monday, Beloved had a frantic cleaning frenzy which included washing most of the windows in our home. Whilst this was occurring, I of course, snuck off and lurked by my Froggie Pond, threatening the Dragonfly Larvae with dire consequences should I catch them with my specialist equipment, a tea strainer taped to a walking pole. I chanced to notice a Hooded Crow raucously cackling at me from a large tree nearby. “Kwark… Kwark…” the Hoodie said. This translates as, “I’m going to crap all over your windows, fatty!” On my return, I was duly impressed at Beloved’s progress and made appropriate noises when I sidled in from our wilderness garden. “Cor!… Wow!…” and “Phew!” said I approvingly.
Hooded Crow Splat mark showing the outline of a Hooded Crow impacting the window.
The place was punishingly tidy and clinically cleansed in a way that only the fairer sex can achieve. The windows were so clean we could see for miles, well, at least as far as the hills over the other side of the loch and that’s quite far enough for me. Any further and you’re into the realms of Johnny Foreigner!
Yesterday we ventured north and drove our trusty steed up to Oban, filled it with food and wine and came back again. A sensible sort of foray done on a day when we thought that Oban might be quiet and devoid of kids running around like a hoard of horrid little snot goblins. It wasn’t and I was soon knee deep in screaming kids.
Agent Bertram called to Buckingham Palace!
It was a Saturday
It was early morning and someone was knocking on Agent Bertram’s front door. ‘This can’t be good. It has to be bloomin’ Buckingham Palace. If I’m wanted at the Palace, it’s always on a bloody Saturday, in my own time,’ thought Agent Bertram dragging his dressing gown over his crumpled nightshirt and stumping downstairs to the front door. ‘The one day that I get to have a nice lie in and then traipse around the shops with my Beloved… and that’s the day they choose to knock on the front door at eight in the morning just when normal decent folk are settling down to a few more zeds! However, as traipsing around the shops looking for wedding paraphernalia is not quite my idea of heaven, this could be a blessing in disguise…‘
Outside, standing on the front step of Bertram’s Gower Street home in London’s Bloomsbury area, was a middle-aged man dressed in a chauffeur’s outfit. He, being from Buckingham Palace, looked immaculate. Bertram scowled at him and glanced over his shoulder towards a Bentley Mulsanne car that positively oozed the colour black. This black was so deep and the paintwork so scratch-free that if it were not for the colourful Royal Crest on the passenger door, subtly announcing the vehicle’s provenance, it would have been difficult to determine if the car was really there at all.
“Something’s up at The Palace then, eh?” ventured Bertram speculatively.
“I can see why you are Her Majesty’s Special Agent… and I am merely the chauffeur,” drawled the man in the thickest of soupy tones.
Agent Bertram visits Buckingham Palace
Jason Bourne / Agent Bertram – the comparisons.
Master the Spy Field Craft of Agent Bertram and Jason Bourne, learning how to emulate them in the field. We make comparisons between Jason Bourne and Agent Bertram, man of mystery and pizza.
This post has been adapted from an article by The Lone Iguana to whom we are deeply indebted.
Midnight Raid by Peter the Pine Marten. Shock horror exposé probe! – William Frederick
Before I launch into the exploits of our local Pine Marten I would like to mention the weather. We seem once again to be following in the footsteps of our American Cousins in that we, in the UK, have started naming our storms. The Cousins must find it hilarious that the Brits feel compelled yet again to copy what they have done. In fact I have it from a colleague in the Foreign Office that the Whitehouse have a monthly meeting were hilarity oft ensues as they think up ever more bizarre things for us to imitate.
Yesterday and today we have been mauled by autumn storm Abigail which, if described as wild, would amount to an understatement of epic proportion. As I write this deathless prose, our slatted wooden ceilings are heaving up and down and creaking like a pensioner’s back, due to the the pressure changes in the loft as one wave of wind crashes against the house, followed by another. The wave analogy works just fine for me, I know full-well that it’s not water but invisible air crashing onto the roof and walls which behaves just as though we are in a wild tumultuous ocean. In compliance with the alphabetical storm naming of our Cousins, we will no doubt soon be visited by some more seasonal storms, given in our case, wimpish names like storm Bartholomew followed storm Camilla.
the view over the loch before storm Abigail