Sadly, the BBC will never get anything "right" from here on in...

The BBC is embroiled in another scandal. Peter Hain is angry! Thrilling. Nothing the Corporation does these days seems to meet with approval and, now that the forces of media Conservatism are beginning to encircle it like proverbial vultures, the survival of the BBC "as we know it" is seriously threatened.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First we have to pick apart some of the arguments made in the latest row about the BNP Leader, Nick Griffin, being invited to appear on tonight's Question Time (22:35, BBC1). Parts of the left-wing activist machine - most of whom have solid and worthy links to anti-racist movements (Peter Hain, Diane Abbott, etc.) - seem to be putting the onus of responsibility onto the BBC. The BNP, as a racist and illegally-constituted party, should not be given this 'platform of legitimacy'.

I can sympathise with this viewpoint. My own gut instinct for dealing with the BNP - and other such problems - is not to give them the oxygen of publicity. "Don't talk about it!" was the cry, long ago, and one I silently repeated with the economic downturn (how does talking about a crisis of confidence help an economy recover from a crisis of confidence?). But we're beyond that. We've had years of BNP stories making the top spot on "the Six and Ten", and now the only way to tackle the problem - in my view - is to engage in a grown-up debate. They won't win it.

The BBC's DG, Mark Thompson, today maintained that including Griffin in tonight's Question Time was the editorially correct thing to do. This sort of strict interpretation of the Corporation's core principles should be applauded. As a nation we are blessed to have such entrenched impartiality. The BNP - Thomson says - has attained a certain proportion of votes and is thus entitled under the BBC's editorial guidelines to appear on Question Time.

The other point made by Thompson is that only Governments have the power and right to censor parties for the public good. This argument might not appear to have the necessary moral unambiguity to satisfy the complainants, but it should serve to emphasise the point on the BBC's editorial impartiality. Them's the rules, guv'.

What most perplexes me is that we now have a situation where the BBC - so often maligned by the right as being 'biased' - is now seen by the left as assisting the BNP in its quest for mainstream legitimacy. This is very dangerous territory for the Corporation, since its own constitution seems to be in direct conflict with those who would ordinarily support it. The principle, they say, should be suspended for the sake of defeating fascism. And therein lies the problem. Suspending the principle would actually lend legitimacy to the BNP's complaints of censorship, and would thus play straight into the hands of fascism. A ban would also be - disturbingly - by definition fascistic.

But the real loser in all of this is not the liberal conscience. The winner is not even the BNP. The true loser in this row will be the BBC, who are finding it increasingly difficult to apply their mission statement in a fragmented, crowd-driven environment. The blogosphere only adds to this distortion, since most blogs aren't governed by the same sort of strict editorial guidelines papers should - in theory - be governed by. The winners, alas, will be those organisations that best utilise that distinctly American personality cult of news bias. Step in a de-regulated Sky News. Step in the bloggers. The blog world can deliver truth, but it mostly offers a platform for the inane ramblings of idiots like me. Without the BBC, where will we be able to escape bias?

The Urge to Write

I had thought, until this week, that my excuses about "not being able to write because the environment wasn't right" were just words. Words I might more usefully put towards writing my novel, the great love of my life. But here in Spain, against all expectations, I have sat down and re-written the difficult passages I hated, and crafted new passages I love. The usual daily word-count has been roughly 3000 words a day, which is no mean feat. Today, however, whether it's because my time here is running out, or because I've been captivated by the very world I've created, the total exceeds 6000 words.

There must be something, then, in this idea of the correct environment for writing. The internet, as ever, provides too much distraction, but here there is a little wire I have to physically link to - something I can only be bothered to do when the book demands I research a detail or two.

I've also been writing outside in the Mediterranean sunshine, which is undeniably pleasant, but the wasps, flies and constant heat do represent a distraction. They're annoying. But looking over the valleys towards the sea obviously provides a more conducive environment for writing than a dark, North-facing room in Bristol, or the same dark North-facing room in Somerton. Something in this peace, and in the time available to me here, is obviously familiar. I've had too many lazy years of this. But now there's something added. A feeling that to not write in this place would be a crime against myself.

And so I have been prolific, and inspired. Unlike my previous writing, I have reveled in dialogue, and let it lead the plot in a way I never before thought possible. The characters are fully at the centre of the book, and driving it forward. And every detail leads to a suggestion of new scenes, even - in once instance - an entirely new and worthwhile chapter.

I'm now at nearly 20,000 words, and have completed 6 chapters out of a planned 15. This represents, to my immense relief, the potential for a real "novel"-sized piece of work. And I owe it all to this reluctant holiday, and to Mum's indulgence of my whim.

The task now, as I return back into the stress of Hatherleigh and family, is to replicate this creative environment, and finish the work I have only really started here.

So I repeat: to my relief, I am not lazy. I just needed the right environment!

"Fall"

I sit beneath this falling jasmine, thinking of you,
I fiddle & writhe in the scent, for I mustn't do,
The book in my hands tells of scholarly trouble,
Of love and its pangs, of war - and I'm humble,
Thinking "what matters is who you adore",
As I watch those white petals fall to the floor.