Dear James Murdoch,
I’m really, really sorry. Really, I am. I’ve let you down so really terribly badly, and the least I can do is apologise right here and now.
As you so rightly noted, the BBC’s callous ‘dumping’ of content onto the people who paid for it makes it tremendously hard for hard-working media executives like yourself to get by. You toil away, day after day, and yet with little or nothing to show for it. But the truth is, James, it’s not just the BBC frustrating your ability to put a roof over your head. It’s also me.
That’s right. Over the course of my life I’ve been shovelled money by the government. Child benefit, free education, student loans… I’m a tax-funded monster, really, just as bad as the BBC. Under your intelligent and wise definition of the word – which I heartily suggest we adopt unquestiongly – I am an arm of the state.
And what do I turn around and do with this unfair funding advantage? Why, produce this very blog of course! I pour out content here – all for free – which sucks up my readers’ time and interest away from you. Why read The Sun when you can read The Musings of a Red Dalek, indeed?
The BBC – and me – are both total anachronisms. We belong to a bygone age, and we must adapt to a future of unlimited choice and competition by closing ourselves down immediately so as to provide less choice and competition. It might sound severe, but this really is the only way of ensuring that your business model – handed down from father to son in one of those timeless traditions which we must all surely protect and cherish – can remain exactly the same in this so-very-changed world.
The alternative is truly too ghastly to even consider, and I’m glad you came up with the ingenious idea of using George Orwell’s little-known novel 1984 as a warning against the dangers of having the power of the media concentrated in too few hands. Orwell himself, a fervent defender of the unregulated free market, would have well approved.
So battle on, brave James – ever the feisty underdog. I too share your confidence in the power of privatised plurality and I firmly believe you will attract a broad range of supporters in the media world. From The Sun, News of the World, The Times and The Sunday Times to The Wall Street Journal, Sky and Fox – the plucky independent media will stand with you in your hour of need.
And so will I. This will be my last blog thrusted onto the world without appropriate recompense, destroying your very lifeblood. Regular readers should look out for eye-watering annual subscription offers, starting soon.
With very best wishes and – again – my sincerest apologies,
Dominic Self
dominicself.co.uk
Cat Collection?
I’m sorry, but if your advert for a ‘clothing collection’ also features a cute couple of kittens for no discernible reason, is it so unreasonable for me to assume that your plan is to skin some cats? (A quick search reveals that it’s clearly not a real charity, incidentally, and they include ‘bath and towels’ on the list of suggested donations. Not sure that a bath would be the the most sensitive donation imaginable.)
I did have the pleasure of seeing a (bona fide) charitable performance of The Tempest on Saturday night in director Kat‘s (magnificent) garden. Abi stole the show as Caliban, it must be said, although it was very well done all round and just a pretty cool thing for a bunch of neighbours to put together of their own volition. As always with Shakespeare I find that already being familiar with the play beforehand to some extent really helps to enjoy it. We’re going to the Globe to see something new on Thursday, however, so I can test my appreciation of ‘new’ Shakespeare too.
Nice garden, no?
(I am frequently curious about the original performances of these plays. Were some big hits and others flops? Could that shorten or prolong a run? Did people decide to go to the theatre based on what was on, or did they just turn up and see? If the Elizabethans had tweeted, would @lmason17thC have heard of @williamshakespeare? Or did you have to be local* / rich / local and rich?)
Am now off to see the twenty-first century’s @lmason17 – I wish everyone returning home from muddy festivals the very best of bathing!
Promise I’ll be kind,
But I won’t stop until that dukedom’s mine
Mila-milanesi
(*OK, he was local once. Ish.)
I’m in love with you like it was the first time (Like the very first time)
I’m still loving you like it was the first time (Like the very first time), yeah
Woah woah, and I will never leave ya (I will never leave)
Woah woah, and I will never leave ya
We were so close, once.
I still remember bringing you home for the very first time, all shiny and new. I was so young; you were so fun. We’d stay up late together, just you and me, showing the world what we were made of. Fiery. Boom boom boom, shoot them all down, dead dead dead.
It wasn’t always easy, of course, but I think that was half the fun. You tested me and made me better. Sometimes you made me feel like a failure, but I kept trying to win your favour, and then all of a sudden I’d be top of the world again in your eyes.
At first we were sharing with my parents in that run-down old place, but later we moved to somewhere brand new and all ours. Our lives became faster, bigger, better. You were maturing too. In the old days you would suddenly crash into oblivion, and it was down to me to rescue you. Now everything seemed more stable.
And then I had to leave.
I can’t explain now, looking back, why you couldn’t come with me. Somehow, deep down, I just knew it wasn’t to be. We were magnificent together, yes, but I was hooked on you – like a drug – and I needed to get away. I had to live my own life. I had to be free.
I kept a few things to remind me of you, of course. Bits and pieces, here and there. And of course, I still had to see you sitting there every damn day. Your cool, silent exterior. Your smooth façade. I looked. You never looked back. Until…
I call it comeback
I’ve seen the whole map
And I’ll be back by the evening
Back together
Did you miss me, Worms 3D?
I’m back!
For once, I am Monopoly King
Now, I’m pretty unapologetic about enjoying holidays, so I won’t bother to go through that tiresome ‘moan unconvincingly about your holiday’ ritual designed to make other people feel good about their non-holiday. Also, it was only Dartmoor, so you’re unlikely to feel uber jealous that you haven’t marvelled over such sights as England’s tallest waterfall. (I have. Fact.) Nevertheless, it was lots of fun 
There was even an outdoor pool which – in Britain! – somehow managed to stay warm…
Fun in the pool
With non-existent mobile reception where we were staying I was able to devote ample chunks of time to reading Brideshead Revisited and Book Club’s The Bird Room. As a family we also watched plenty of films: Fight Club (excellent), Cars (sorely needs a public transport sequel), Black Hawk Down (like watching someone else play a computer game), The Black Dahlia (eh?) and Downfall (also excellent). (I have to admit to walking out of the first volume of Kill Bill after about half an hour, bored and feeling like I’d been watching a PowerPoint made for a film studies class.)
You travel to the other side of the country and arrive at… South Brent?!
There isn’t really much else to say, other than the full album will be on Facebook… soon 
Look – countryside! (Scary cows not pictured)
Policing moral rectitude
Watch out for my new wildlife show, starting soon
Auditioning for the role of Steen
Fishin’ and chipin’ it on the last night
Or so it feels at the moment – I’m off to Devon tomorrow with the rest of the Selfs Selves Selfs Selves family for a week, which will be another week spent being grateful that I haven’t agreed try and squeeze a dissertation into my summer. This evening I got back from seeing Lucy on a trip which included me playing Scrabble (I came third but not last, which is what I will hold on to), many baby photos and a trip to Drayton Manor theme park. I really do hope that I never stop enjoying rollercoasters, because it really would open up a bit of a void in my schedule of experiences which justify being alive but don’t make me fatter. Really, what’s not to love?
(However – and I know I already tweeted this, but this is my blog, and I always drive to deliver true cross-platform synergy in my core online activities to enable inspirational user experiences – there is something infuriatingly niggling about a sign with physics mistakes in. At least with spelling and grammar you can console yourself that language evolves blah blah blah, but the units of acceleration are never going to evolve into those of velocity, and if you try and apply one instead of another there is a very real chance that the rollercoaster will break and kill us all. ‘G-force’ is a measure of acceleration measured in metres per second per second. Also, converting to imperial units will not magically divide this by time. That is all.)
Helen on It’s (waiting) time.: “Fabulous news, congratulations to you both! X” Jun 8, 21:51
