Florida: Fahrenheit 451

Ray Bradbury's novel Fahrenheit 451 derived its title from the temperature at which paper burns. Florida is feeling the heat from around the world about the pastor Terry Jones on/off campaign to incinerate copies of the Koran at the Dove World Outreach.

This is the stuff of fatwa. You don't hear stories of people burning Bibles, Torahs or, to the frank, any kind of book (apart from the Nazis), so this proposed action is incendiary to the Muslim world.

The proposed compromise, to move the location of an Islamic Centre in Manhattan, is probably a non-starter in that the site is two blocks away from Ground Zero.

This row is dangerous and, whatever happens, Mr Jones has succeeded in strengthening the common stereotype of the United States as an arrogant, intolerant state. Although this is a simplistic and wrong-headed view, there are extremists in the country who play to the gallery.

Terrorism may increase in the short term, Osama bin Laden will probably release a video, and Mr Jones may need to employ enhanced security measures for himself and his church.


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Live from Easter Road: Thompson 1 Murdoch 1

At the Edinburgh television festival's MacTaggart lecture, the BBC director general, Mark Thompson ordered a dish of hot revenge from the media menu. His target was James Murdoch, Sky's chairman, who roasted the BBC during the event's speech last year.

What would be more impressive than the knockabout jousting would be a smidgen of mea culpa. But media moguls are politicians these days and have to be seen to avoid Gerald Ratner-style 'crap' gaffes. You can't admit to naffness without adversely affecting the next BBC licence-fee settlement or the next morning's Sky share price.


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Anglo-Saxon attitudes

More news on the profanity front (see Wither the watershed?)

The Brazilian officials for England's forthcoming World Cup game against the USA have been swotting up on twenty English-language swear words so they can understand the invective that will be coming their way.

What's the betting an Englishman or two will be booked (at least) for sharing their opinions on Saturday lunchtime? Not very long odds, I fear.

But at least Mary Whitehouse can thank FIFA's alleged initiative for slowing down her tomb revolutions.

No thanks to David Mellor, former Tory Cabinet minister and soccer pundit, whose recent fruity ranting is another kettle of fish entirely ...


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Wither the watershed?

Mary Whitehouse is probably spinning furiously in the proverbial at the publication of the latest research from Ofcom.

The British public are apparently relaxed about swearing on television, the culprits even being lauded as role models. Gordon Ramsay has changed the 'bounds of acceptability' almost single-handedly, but his moment will surely pass eventually.

There must still be boundaries, though. Children's programming should be ring-fenced, but where is the limit of protection?

Would Doctor Who ever be profane? Would Radio 1 condone cursing rather than simply tolerate it? Would The X Factor ever entertain bad language?

No ... perhaps. Language limits are always on the move. Eventually people will get bored of excessive swearing, and the expletives will either disappear or youth culture will invent a new rude toolkit of words with which to frighten the media horses.


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Maggie, Maggie, Maggie; in, out, shake it all about

Maggie's club on the Fulham Road is a hit with the Sloanes and Hoorays. Apparently the venue is themed to the 1980s 'glory years' of Margaret Thatcher: memorabilia, speeches, the works.

Actually, the operative word is hit. Apparently, the owners have had to replace three sets of speakers from clubbers unappreciative of the Iron Lady's classic riffs: party-goer have punched out the woofers and tweeters. There is still no such thing as Society.

Will David Cameron be inspiring nightlife entrepreneurs in 2040, I wonder? It is very early days. 'Stand down, David, stand down, please' is not yet a pop-pickers rallying cry.


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When technology fails: a politician's lament

Gordon Brown has had a bad day. Comments he made in the back of a car moments after meeting a voter in Rochdale got spread around the blogosphere almost before he had finished speaking.

Was this a gaffe? It's too early to say. He'll get horrible headlines in the press, but the final television debate tomorrow is on the economy, his strongest hand.

At the very least the saga has used up a whole day's news cycle, which is not good news. But the story drowned out anything David Cameron and Nick Clegg may have said today.

Voters have strong views about immigration, like the lady in Rochdale, but sometimes the public's instinct for a policy is not the real picture. This is one reason why we elect politicians, to investigate problems and make informed decisions.

On the other hand, the public will be making the ultimate decision next Thursday in polling booths around the country.


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Emma's got talent? You decide

What happens when talent shows get too serious? You guessed it, contestants start suing the judges who booted them off the show on the grounds that potential earnings from their cruelly denied stardom had been strangled at birth.

Welcome to the world of Simon Cowell and the unwanted attention he is now receiving from former Britain's Got Talent contestant, Emma Czikai.

This is a natural progression from childhood dreams of fame and celebrity. In the digital age, aspiring performers expect to be stars as their birthright. In a strange way, the viral behaviour of stories spread on the internet creates notoriety: unintended and fleeting fame for lack of ability.

Unless, of course, you can brazen out the bad publicity, like The X Factor's Jedward.

Minx stink: parental furore over web game

My Minx makes the case for the licence fee. How so, I predict you'll be asking?

Market forces mean that girls of 7 upwards have been flocking to the designer-style web game to create fashion-icon avatars on the pull and on the pill complete with lowest-common denominator must-have accessories:

• Racist character stereotypes. Check.
• Tasteless storyline threads. Check
• Inappropriate sexual content. Check.
• Pushing parental boundaries. Check.

Blighty Arts, the producers of the game. say My Minx is 'harmless, tongue-in-cheek entertainment'; but they can't even spell the name of their products (sic, 'My Minix') despite all the glitz of their user-interface design.

The relentless push for eyeballs means content gets dragged to the gutter in an unregulated market. Hence the internet and the likes of Fox TV can dream up grotesque virtual and reality freak shows with impunity from regulators.

The licence-fee arrangements in the UK enshrine public-taste standards, which at least keeps some of the wildest ideas off our screens. A constant barrage of tasteless programming eventually become boring, so it always needs to recruit new viewers and participants; hence the relentless, deliberate content pitched at children.

This is the media content equivalent of the drug pusher, and it isn't a pretty sight. The logical extension of such forces to give the mob want they want is ever more graphic sex and violence aimed at progressively younger audiences. This vision of society celebrates a regression to a pre-Enlightenment, violent past.

But perhaps, as the internet is so pervasive, the gloves are already off when it comes to content: at least until the next swing of the pendulum that attempts to impose a moral framework on a feral, free-for-all society where anything goes ... and frequently does.

Drink a drink a drink: a light-hearted satire

Sung to the tune of Lily the Pink, The Scaffold.

'Stephen Hester's
A bit of a pest-er
'Cos in the country's hour of ne-e-eed.
He let us fester
While he feathered his nest-er
With ReallyBigShareholder sense of greed.'

'We'll ... drink a drink a drink
To Stevie the fink the fink the fink
The saviour of the City's fay-a-ace.
For he invented, arithmetical compound
Most advantageous to his pay.'

Me and Mrs Janes

Jacqui Janes, I feel your pain. Or at least a tiny sliver of it.

The media world has moved on since Gordon Brown penned his heartfelt, misspelt letter of condolence, with The Sun getting the larger portion of egg on its face for neglecting to remind readers of the PM's partial blindness and for its own website blunder expressing dearest sympathy for "Mrs Jones".

But today I'm encouraged by my Alma Mater to tithe my modest income to help fund budding academic boy geniuses, which might be understandable if they'd sent the begging letter to the right person. The sheen of alumni status pales somewhat if the school can't get your name right. I clearly made so great an impression on the esteemed establishment that, when some years back I pointed out out their mistake, they insisted there were two of us by the same name in the same year and told me my middle name was Andrew.

So I'll leave the philanthropy to the Phils and Annes until someone cleanses their database, or probably later on the parallel logic that charity begins at home (at least, it does on my meagre annual crust).