I've been cogitating on Tim Davies' departure from the BBC.
Perhaps his resignation isn’t the act of a man without backbone – perhaps it’s the opening move of a longer strategy. By choosing his own exit, he may have given himself a chance to act with newfound freedom in these final months. And if he uses that freedom to push for real change – including calling for figures like Robbie Gibb to be dropped from the board – he might leave the BBC stronger than he found it.
He’s spent years navigating the BBC through a storm of populist pressure. If he now uses his remaining time to defend editorial independence more openly, he could set a new tone. He can’t choose his successor directly, but he can influence the environment they inherit by advocating for a board that’s free from political baggage. Removing someone like Gibb, who’s seen as a partisan figure, would be a powerful step in that direction.
Trump might claim victory, but Davie’s resignation could yet become a masterstroke if he uses it to shift the focus. By stepping aside on his own terms and calling for a more impartial board, he could turn what looks like a retreat into a tactical reset.
In the end, it’s still possible that Davie’s resignation is the first step in a smarter manoeuvre. By using his final months to set a braver tone and to call for a less politicised board, he may yet show the backbone many thought he lacked. It’s not just about leaving; it’s about leaving a stronger ship behind.
Time will tell.
The best successor would be someone with both commercial realism and editorial steel – someone like Alex Mahon, who fought off a government-led privatisation of Channel 4 without losing her composure or her grip on the figures. She understands public-service broadcasting, political headwinds, and digital transformation. More importantly, she doesn’t flinch. If Davie steadies the BBC before she takes the helm, the corporation might just rediscover its confidence – and its bite.
Codicil – The Farage Gambit
And now comes the latest flourish from the master of grievance politics himself. Farage, ever the showman, has seized upon the Trump–BBC row like a gift from the gods of indignation. Reform’s sudden withdrawal from the Rise of Reform documentary isn’t a loss of trust at all – it’s a staged walkout, carefully timed to ride the aftershocks of Trump’s tantrum. The man who built a career shouting from the sidelines has again found a way to turn silence into spectacle.
It’s textbook Farage. When the questions start getting too close – about funding, candidates, or the gap between rhetoric and reality – he finds a new enemy. The BBC is perfect for the part: too dignified to shout back, too conscientious to ignore him, and too important to dismiss. By labelling it “infected with bias,” he places himself once again at the centre of a populist morality play – the lone truth-teller besieged by elites, bravely refusing the camera he once courted.
What he’s really done is cut the oxygen to accountability. By walking away, he ensures there will be no candid footage, no unguarded moments, no awkward questions. The “documentary of unprecedented access” would have revealed the seams of a party built more on outrage than organisation. Farage’s genius lies not in leadership, but in exit timing – he knows when to storm out and when to slam the door.
So the codicil is simple: Reform’s “loss of trust” is nothing more than a scripted retreat – a PR sleight of hand dressed as principle. The BBC becomes the villain once again, Trump the martyr, and Farage the chorus leader conducting the outrage. The tragedy is that millions will nod along, mistaking theatre for conviction, and never notice that the curtain has quietly fallen before the truth could walk on stage.
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