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Without Fear or Favor – –

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Jack’s makes it on time for a change – –

Ah – good old auntie BBC –

I shouldn’t post as much on FaceBook about the BBC. It’s loved around the world for its fair and un-biased news reporting and its great documentaries, dramas and wildlife programs.

But here’s what my American friends may not know –  –

It’s funded through a ‘TV license’ which everyone in the UK who owns a TV must pay, even if they never watch the BBC. Detector vans roam the country checking who has a TV in their house and whether they have a license (see below for George Orwell and 1984).

I think I started to get suspicious of their news coverage during their reporting of the ‘troubles’ in N. Ireland and then the Falklands war, then the two Iraq wars and even the Scottish Independence referendum. Finally their coverage of Brexit, and of the labour party and Jeremy Corbyn was the last nail in the coffin.

Because whatever the UK political party in charge is can determine the amount of the license that folk have to pay, it’s pretty obvious what will happen. Add to that the Government appointing the folk in charge then you get the drift.

When George Orwell was employed by the BBC he discovered room 105 where the vetting of prospective employees took place by MI5 – British secret service. He used that in his novel – 1984. That room was still in use into the 1990s and it’s also very likely that this still goes on.

However, I actually have no problem with the BBC defending the integrity of the United Kingdom or even the priorities of the UK Government. There are many radio and TV organizations around the world doing exactly the same thing for their countries. I even admire how the BBC has managed to hide this down the years.

So what is my problem?

Maybe just that I fell for it for so long – – –

Here’s a link to a recent speech by highly acclaimed ex-BBC Journalist Emily Maitlis at the Edinburgh International Festival –

JUST ANOTHER REASON TO LOVE LIBRARIES

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Notification came that a book I’d asked our local library to get was waiting for me. The next day, Jack and I were running a couple of early morning errands and wound up at the library about 5 minutes before it opened.

We weren’t the only ones waiting. On the porch paced a bearded man in t-shirt and baggy gym shorts. I’d seen him walking around town the past few weeks. He clutched two paperbacks at his side, the kind of thing a fifth or sixth grader might check out, History of the Flag or Rocks in the Painted Desert. Slim, floppy, full if information but not big words. I had noticed him about town because he usually carried a couple such books with him.

One of the librarians emerged from a side door, wearing a crisp black shirt, buttoned at cuffs and collar, and began watering the flowers on the porch troughs. He and Wandering Guy exchanged a few words, and then Crisp Shirt went back in via the same side door.

When the library opened, I followed Wandering Guy in. Since he was busy with Crisp Shirt Man at the desk, I browsed a few crochet magazines and checked the new releases. Apparently someone had come in from the side door behind Crisp Shirt—whose nametag read William, Keeper of Dungeons and Master of Disaster.

William at work

Our library does a weekly D&D game among its many side hustles. William is the kind of dignified person who works his desk with an air of holy priesthood fulfilling a scared duty, yet also somehow underemployed for his skills. He is awesome to watch with people.

As I noodled about killing time, the person who had gotten in the side door could be heard singing softly to herself, a tuneless version of Amazing Grace. She was on verse three when I got there and kept going until she ran out of breath around verse 8.

The silence filled the library. William finished with Wandering Guy, who cocked an ear in the direction of the now-missing hymn.

As I slid into place before William’s throne—I mean desk—Wandering Guy gave what can only be described as a tiny shrug, and started a cheerful, out-of-tune rendition of Bless the Lord O My Soul—the worship chorus, not the hymn full of thees and haths.

William’s eyes rolled, but he said nothing as he found my interlibrary loan. “Looks like a good read,” he said of The Drunken Botanist. “We thank you for your custom and hope you enjoy your perusal of this fine volume.”

It may have been a trick of the lighting, but I’m pretty sure William gave a slight yet courtly bow as he passed the book over the counter in both hands, akin to a cleric setting forth a quest.

I thanked William, waved to Wandering Singing Guy, and started out—at the exact moment the unseen woman in history began to harmonize on the Bless the Lord chorus.

I love libraries. You never know.