Brand Resigns, Tabloids Bitter They Cannot Now Use Headline "Russell Banned"

Although, I'm sure some of them still did.

Blimey, what a maelstrom. The thing that's surprised me about this whole Brand/Ross debacle is the sheer exponential expansion of the story. The beleaguered Beeb has a nice timeline illustrating this. I always find it amusing when the BBC has to report on itself, as it seems to have to do a lot a moment. You can see the newsreaders desperately trying to emphasise their impartiality, even though they might as well say "For more on this story, let's go live to our correspondent at the scene, standing on the other side of this studio wall," and speak to them through a cup on a piece of string. And currently, all the correspondents covering this have the same "WTF?!" expression on their faces, bewildered at the necessity to give half-hourly updates on the movements of two people who have managed to provoke a level of outrage usually reserved for if not paedophiles, then comedians who make jokes about paedophiles. Chris Morris must be suffused with a warm sense of nostalgia looking at all this.

OK, so. It did go a little bit far, and the original shriek from J-Ross of "He fucked your grandaughter!" and his subsequent analysis of that fucking was, in my humble opinion, childishly unfunny, and Brand's reactions were marginally amusing...if he did indeed make up that little song on the hoof, it was quite good, kinda, sorta, maybe. And it wasn't personally offensive towards Mr Sachs, just quite unpleasant for him to hear...and arguably, the privacy of the young lady in question was probably breached. Saying that, however, her behaviour since has been by far the least dignified. I saw her on TV, being interviewed in a Sun-branded interview in the Sun offices by a Sun reporter, claiming that she didn't want the whole affair to get any more publicity. I think it's safe to say she didn't realise the irony.

What's more worrying is the public reaction, and the reaction to the reaction. Who were the people that complained? Not people who actually listened to the show. Not people who would have ever listened to Russell Brand before or who have any particular allegiance to Andrew Sachs or satanic sluts of any type. But people who were, presumably, influenced by a section of the press which is more filled with misogyny and hate than anything in the most fevered dreams of the Brand/Ross Axis of Evil. You know what? Let 'em vent their spleen. Fine, it keeps them off the streets. But they should be ranting into an empty void of indifference. I mean, Gordon Brown? Gordon Brown?! Is it really something that needs a comment from the highest power in the land? And now the BBC has sacrificed another lamb in the shape of the controller of Radio 2, and suspended J-Ross for three months, punching, one assumes, an enormous hole in their pre-Christmas scheduling. And all for the baying mob. I fear for what this means for Have I Got News For You, Mock The Week, Never Mind The Buzzcocks, The News Quiz...any other show that regularly broadcasts material that could be construed as much more offensive than this minor lapse (but helpfully is a great deal funnier).

Ah, argh, oh. I don't know what to think. My opinion has flip-flopped so much in the last few days that I'm currently rotating at approximately 33.3 rpm. I think, on balance, basically, what he said.

Note, just as it's on TV right now: PLEASE CAN EVERYONE STOP USING ONE DAY LIKE THIS BY ELBOW FOR EPIC TRAILERS (current offender - BBC drama preview) YOU ARE RENDERING IT COMPLETELY MEANINGLESS! Enough shouting. Thanks.

And Also, Killer Theme Tune. Double Bass: Approved!

Finally, I am one-fifth caught up with the respectable human race. I have completed watching season one of the The Wire. I will now add my tiny, insignificant voice to the countless millions of others on this here internet to tell you thisly: Oh, goodness me and saints alive, it's good. It's really, really good. It's complicated, it's multi-layered, the characters are complex, there are no black and white areas, it's all shades of grey. And it treats the viewer like adults, for the love of money. No "previously on...", no "next time...", no horrendously clunky "you're my sister/brother/mistress and I love you, but..." expositional dialogue - you have to concentrate, and keep track of the intricate, weaving-y lines of plot, and remember all these hundreds of faces fading in and out of the story, but it's so totally worth it. In summary, it's taut, tight television, trimmed of all extraneous flab and feculence. I'm dreading going back to 24 after this. It's gonna seem like hallucinatory cartoon full of big, violent, idiotic bears.

Anyway, that's all that, and now I have the next four series to look forward to, once they eventually filter through the thousands of other deserving Lovefilm bastards who got there before me. Buying the DVD boxsets is entirely not an option, for I am nothing if not a complete drama glutton, and I would hoover through the whole lot in a weekend. But this way the pleasure can be eked out over months and months, slowly building to a shuddering climax and immediate sticky emptiness and depression that it's all over. Oh, ew. Sorry about that. See, now I'm convincing myself that I shouldn't watch the rest of it to protect myself from the horror of the aftermath. Also, I think I may have put myself off participating in any kind of sexy shenanigan for life. Nevertheless! Here's the dangerfield with The Wire: spoilers. It's a peculiar feeling, as generally, I'm so used to knowing almost exactly what's going to happen in TV before it happens, I'd almost forgotten how to process new audio-visual information streaming into my bonce so it doesn't shatter my brain, but I wanted to come at this spoiler-free. Alas, I was warned by wise old owls who've seen them all. "Don't look anything up," they cooed from afar. "Don't google it, don't look the actors up on imdb, don't read anything, cos it'll spoil it for you." And I've been trying so hard! I really have! But it's too hard! This blaaady show appears to be everywhere! One bit was my fault, I'd admit. I foolishly thought that, as I'd seen it before, I could look up Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe review on YouTube, but within ten seconds of the clip starting, I'd seen footage of a photo of a dead body of someone who was very much alive and vibrant where I'd got up to. Hooray for spending the next five episodes just waiting for him to get shot! But others...I mean, I opened a magazine, saw it had a relevant article, immediately snapped it shut with the lightning reflexes of a ninja. But not before I'd got a glance at the accompanying picture, wherein McNulty was rocking some kind of low-level policing uniform, instead of his usual detective-schmo suit. Bam! Now I know he's demoted. Fuck fuck fuck! WILL THESE TORTURES NEVER END?!

Oh, lord in all the heavens, it's good that it's turned into autumn suddenly. Now I have a legitimate reason to stay indoors and obsess about these tiny specks of gravel on the great boulevard of life. Lo, are they the headlights of the wasted life lorry looming towards me...?

But First, The Weather With Sylvester Stuart

It's official - the horror and fear and paranoia has just become too much, and tipped over into complete hilarity. The day, 16th October 2008. The time, 8pm. The event, Jeremy Vine striding into view in Panorama: Holy Giddy Fuckholes, Where's My Christing Money Gone?! (or something like that).

Credit crunch global share bank cash meltdown. Never has a major news story made me feel quite so bloody dense. No matter how many BBC news website simplifications I read, how many terrifically intelligent people I question, I am still completely clueless as to what particular brand of apocalypse the world is spiralling into. The Governor of the Bank of England could come to my house and daub a comforting summary of the situation on my wall using crayons and plasticine and I would still be found ten minutes later gently sobbing under the sink, desperately stuffing five pound notes into the cracks in the floorboards. Auntie Beeb has sniffed the stench of human suffering on the winds, and sent out the good ship Vine to settle our nerves once and for all. Yes, the money nightmare has finally reached the point of self-parody.

It's often said that The Day Today foretold the development in television news broadcasting with unnerving accuracy. In fact, there's probably enough empirical evidence within those six half-hours of comedy gold to suggest the creators are actually robots from the future, charged with a bizarre mission of satirising us into submission. But tonight's Panorama was something different. It's as if they have made a Gus Van Sant-style shot for shot remake of the infamous and brilliant WAR! episode. From the cavernous studio filled with alarming backlit logos, Jeremy Vine emotes wildly at the camera, which glides past him to alight upon Robert Peston, stood in a glassy-eyed news trance. A sharply professional blonde in the corner eyes us cooly from within a maelstrom of viewer emails, promising to take us "inside the financial tsunami." There's a Panorama Debt Clock (sadly not made of cardboard and suspended around the neck of David Schneider.) Standing by, Douglas Hurd. (actually, Suralan Sugar) It's almost a jolt to the system when you don't see Steve Coogan monitoring the Panorama News Pipe. But five minutes later, as if to hammer the point firmly into our skulls, a credit crunch victim is interviewed wearing an Alan Partridge t-shirt. It's all absolutely absurd, and completely wonderful.

To give the programme makers some miniature dues, it all settles down into a fairly standard BBC "That's all very well, but what about me, Mr Average Joe?" pointlessly interactive Q&A session, which could have slotted into three minutes on the Breakfast sofa. Jezza Vizza does his "Man of the people!" schtick, harrying a startled spokesman from the Council of Mortgage Lenders on the issue of 125% loans, as if that well-and-truly bolted horse had trampled his mum on the way out. Suralan seemed genuinely confused by the whole situation, and waxed lyrical on the good old days, where there were no overpriced consultants and your "acaaaaantant" would advise you on the best ways to swindle the taxman and dissolve the corpses of your enemies. And boneheaded bozos emailed in whiny diatribes about their dwindling endowments, mostly ending with the irritating entreaty "Who's going to bail ME out?" No-one, you morons. This is what happens when you GAMBLE on the STOCK MARKET. Christ, I have barely a penny to rub against nothing at all, and even I know that "the value of your policy may go down as well as up." The evil bankers are only legally obliged to say that every single time they advertise their products.

But what do I know. My entire fortune has been digested into mouse poo. Never mind - the rate we're going, that'll be legal tender within the year. Bring on the trumpets!

I Don't Really Smoke B+H. What Am I, Superman?

Perhaps the most enjoyable thing about making your mind up to do something tough is coming up with the creative excuses to not do it any more. Little vignettes that the reckless pleasure-seeking part of your brain can sing prettily at the worthy, nagging part of your brain, allowing the decision-making centre to merrily stick two fingers up at the nagger and succumb to an orgy of weakness. I have been going through this almost constantly since last August when, in a sudden decision which actually took me by surprise and led me to wonder if I was suffering from a Fight Club-esque split personality disorder, but instead of the alternate me being a cool, sexy insurgent against capitalism, it was a prissy emphysemic old woman, I gave up smoking.

It was OK for a while, but then the excuses started. Firstly, the odd one when I was drinking, but that was OK because smoking would always be the very least of the multitude of sins I would commit when under the influence of the red-wine-red-wine-red-wine-gin-to-round-off-the-nightmare gods. Next: smoking on holiday was just fine and dandy, especially as my holiday destinations were coincidentally - coincidentally, I tell you! - places heady with the sweet, toxic atmosphere of love for the smokeroos. Then came the all-nighters at work...who can get through eight solid hours of a completely empty office building without leaning on the choking companionship of my good friends Benson and Hedges?

But kaloo, kalay! I now have a fabulous new excuse to inhale a mix of burning plant and delicious carcinogens. No more invention needed on my part! Our wonderful government has decided that all smokers are illiterate bell-ends who somehow can't understand the enormous words "SMOKING KILLS, YOU UTTER NUMBSKULLS!" emblazoned on our boxes o'delight, and instead, need to be informed of the deadly nature of our habit via the medium of grotesque pictures of diseased lungs, rotting corpses, laboratory beagles crying a single tear and suchforth. And now I can take up smoking professionally again, after recent dabbling at amateur level. The reason? Collections! How badly do I want to collect every single picture they're throwing at us? How much do I want to have the schoolyard swapsies conversation again, flicking through my fag packet collection: "Got. Got. Got. Got. Awww, autopsy! Want! Swap you for three tar-ridden hearts and a bag of oilies?" Very, and lots. And the only way I can is to buy, buy, buy, until I literally can't breathe. If Phillip Morris is really clever, and 60 years of unimaginable profits says he probably is, he will engineer one of the pictures to be incredibly rare, so the kidz will buy at least six packs a day in search of the decaying organ equivalent of the foil '84 Liverpool badge sticker.

If these pictures are even a fraction as cool as the Lucky Strike pack that opens up like a book and then OMG YOU TURN IT ROUND AND IT OPENS UP THE OTHER WAY HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?!, they will be very bloody cool indeed. I look forward to a purse-and-life destroying but socially-lubricated winter. I can go and join the cool people again!