Aunty

I used to be firmly in favour of the BBC licence fee. Call it civic pride or just an appreciation for a decent wildlife documentary without an ad for toothpaste shoehorned in every six minutes. But lately, I’ve found myself twitching. Not because I’ve fallen for the swivel-eyed “defund the BBC” crowd – most of whom think “bias” means anything to the left of Genghis Khan – but because I’ve noticed something worse: the Beeb hasn’t been captured by the people. It’s been captured by politicians.

The whole point of the licence fee, once upon a time, was to keep the BBC independent. A bit of insulation from corporate shareholders, tabloid pressure, and ministerial sulks. That was the theory, anyway. In practice, it’s turned into a political leash. Every time the BBC steps even one toe out of line, ministers start rattling the tin. “Time to freeze the licence fee.” “Why not scrap it altogether?” “Subscription model, anyone?” – all floated with the same menacing smirk.

And the BBC folds like a deckchair.

Take Richard Sharp – former Tory donor, Boris Johnson ally, and conveniently appointed BBC chairman. He helped arrange an £800,000 loan for the PM, then somehow found himself in the top job at Auntie. When the conflict of interest was exposed, the BBC wriggled and squirmed, but it was all too revealing. This wasn’t a broadcaster holding the powerful to account. This was one cosying up, desperate not to bite the hand that feeds.

Then came the Gary Lineker debacle – punished for tweeting a personal opinion about the government’s asylum policy. Not during a broadcast. Not while presenting Match of the Day. Just an entirely separate comment on his own time, for which he was publicly slapped down. What clearer signal could there be? The message was obvious: if you work for the BBC, you’re expected to self-censor – not just on air, but in life.

And lurking behind this culture of nervous compliance is Robbie Gibb – the so‑called “anti‑woke” crusader parachuted onto the BBC Board, with one foot in Tufton Street’s shadowy network of “think‑tanks” and the other still damp from his time wading through Downing Street’s comms swamp. Gibb’s presence isn’t about oversight – it’s about overreach. It’s about making sure the BBC never strays too far from the approved hymn sheet, that “balance” means giving the culture warriors their pound of flesh, and that anyone with the faintest whiff of independence is quietly frozen out.

And so the output suffers. “Balance” becomes both-sides nonsense. Climate change deniers given equal time with climatologists. Brexit presented as “controversial” rather than catastrophic. Every topic hedged, every sentence caveated. The goal isn’t to inform – it’s to avoid offence. Usually to government ministers, tabloid editors, or the handful of perpetually-outraged voices who think the licence fee should be paid in grovelling apologies.

This isn’t editorial independence. It’s institutional cowardice.

So maybe it’s time to cut the cord – not to kill the BBC, but to set it free. Independent funding. Independent governance. Ring-fenced, transparent, and beyond the reach of whichever halfwit happens to be culture secretary this week – and yes, beyond the reach of people like Gibb and his ideological gatekeeping too.

Yes, that carries risk. The output might become bolder, edgier – even upsetting. Good. That’s the point. A truly independent BBC wouldn’t ask “Is this fair to the government?” – it would ask “Is this true?”

Right now, Auntie isn’t a national treasure. She’s a battered hostage blinking under duress. And if we want to save her soul, we’ll have to prise her out of the grip of party politics.

Before the only thing left of public service broadcasting is a smug panel show hosted by Jacob Rees-Mogg, with Robbie Gibb grinning offstage like a man who’s just strangled the last bit of integrity out of the room.