Whilst we were dancing round the wicker Fabian last night, In London one figure was sadly missing at the concert. For most of us, throughout our lives, he has been a central figure in all of our great state occasions. A man born into a hereditary privilege. Not the Duke of Edinburgh; we know that he missed the concert due to illness. I myself have been laid low by a surfeit of Lampreys on more than one occasion, so I can imagine what he must feel like.
I speak of David Dimbledore, son of Richard Dimbledore and brother to Johnathon, hereditary wizards of the airwaves, who have guided us through these great moments and told us what to think. Where on earth was he?
If the BBC cannot bother to wheel out one of the monarchs of the television and inflict mediocrities, spouting inanities upon us; one has to ask oneself the question, 'What is the point in having the BBC?'
One can now get water, gas and electricity from one of several companies. So why do we have to pay a compulsory tax if we want to watch another companies offerings. It should go the way of all things that have passed their time. Like the steam train, the BBC could be run by a collection of enthusiasts at the weekend and once in a while we could take a trip down BBC memory lane and feel all warm and nostalgic. Then after we had congratulated ourselves for doing so, could then return to the real world and how things are meant to be.
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