Say No to Titchmarsh
I am becoming increasingly exercised by the BBC’s insistence on destroying potentially high-quality programming by inflicting on viewers the ubiquitous imbecile Alan Titchmarsh as presenter. This smug, self-regarding cretin is a tired parody of himself, yet from sub-Partridge day time chat shows he has somehow been promoted to fronting the Corporation’s prime time flagship natural history series Britain: A Natural History and latterly The Nature of Britain. If it wasn’t bad enough having his irritating round head constantly filling the TV screen, on a visit to Waterstones on Saturday I rounded a corner to be confronted with an entire display of smirking Titchmarshs as the incurable scrivener has seen fit to inflict a volume of autobiography on the unwitting public. It is titled in irksome Yorkshire dialect “Nobbbut a Lad”, which on its own is enough to justify a book burning. Titchmarsh’s debut novel, I am reliably informed, featured an overlooked TV gardener becoming a national sex s...