That popular bogeyman, the BBC, has had to suffer the slings and arrows of British newspaper writers again over the last few weeks. It’s been very quiet since Christmas in tabloid-news terms. That doesn’t mean that there hasn’t been plenty of events that have been shaping the world- simply that there hasn’t been adequate stories to keep tabloid readers interested.

Nothing sells better than incensing people and given them that warm fuzzy glow that comes from feeling indignant. The Eastenders Cot Death Story Controversy should not be confused with The Eastenders Cot Death Story.

The latter revolved around one of its central characters losing her baby to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, and then stealing anther character’s baby. The former asks some terrifying questions about the BBC about whether they hate all ‘right-thinking’ people.

They were accused, disturbingly, of making fictional programmes about dramatic subjects. We know what you’re thinking- why can’t they just stick to programmes of desperate people dancing badly to keep the proletariat happy? Well apparently that’s not enough for the liberal media sickos at the BBC. They insist on having programmes full of things that have just been made up! Even worse some of the things that have been made up are things that have happened to people in the real world.

Even the Daily Mail, normally first to point the finger of filth at the nation’s broadcaster, realised that this wasn’t decent enough grounds to vilify the Beeb. They reported it, but their heart wasn’t especially in it. We say heart. We mean pacemaker powered by the broken dreams of illegal immigrants.

This was The Sun’s story really, but luckily there’s a plethora of busy-bodies, pressure groups and attention-seekers always on hand with quotes for friendly journalists.

The Mirror, without the slightest trace of irony, had a quote from mumsnet accusing the episode of being

“a cynical ploy to make headlines by creating controversy”.

The Mirror also carried a quote from someone who lost a child who was concerned the (entirely fictional) story would reinforce the (entirely fictitious) stereotype that bereaved mothers “go mad and steal babies”.

“I had so hoped the EastEnders storyline might have paved our way to campaign more loudly than ever, but I am disappointed” said Anne Diamond in The Sun whilst using the controversy to pave the way for her to campaign more loudly than ever.

The Sun justified attacking the BBC further with the front-page headlines ‘Sam Quits Enders Over Cot Death’. The idea being that even Eastenders actress Samantha Womack was outraged by the soap plotline, the article featured plenty of information from ‘a source’.

A source of bullshit, evidently, judging by the page 3 of next day’s Mirror- ‘Womack told a pal “it’s ridiculous to claim I quit because of the storyline”.’

So it’s a source versus a pal with no-one actually speaking to the actor who had filmed the scenes that she was so disgusted by. Oh well, this isn’t just a conversation between newspapers is it? Presumably their readerships were outraged too?

A quick look at the comments on the newpapers’ websites would suggest otherwise. They were seemingly as perplexed as everyone else about what the fuss was about, and a week later everyone had forgotten it even happened.

The following Monday, the Daily Mail suggested that even prostitution was off limits. Do they think we’ve never actually watched a British soap-opera before? They didn’t actually suggest it themselves the article just started with the hilariously half-hearted ‘Eastenders will invite fresh accusations of sensationalism’. The accusations didn’t follow, and the controversy stayed dead.

The true lesson to be learned by the BBC from all this, is that not every criticism is going to turn into a licence-fee worrying disaster just because publications with naked self-interest hand out pitchforks and flaming torches to the public. Sometimes the public are smarter than editors give them credit for.

And what about those who felt genuinely upset by the soap? Well, maybe people with empty lives who find it easier to write a letter than operate a remote-control don’t deserve to have their voices heard.

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My early years took place in that terrible time of flux as the 80s closed and the 90s opened up.

The Berlin Wall was crumbling, Thatcher was on her way out, the greed-is-good years were still in full swing. So how the hell did the grown-ups of this era not do better than Saved by the Bell, Baywatch and Pat Sharp’s inhumane hair?

Thankfully we’ve been able to brush most of this era under the now-tastefully-plain carpet and are free to enjoy The Hoff’s slide into implosive alcoholism without red Speedos sullying anyone’s eyes.  However, this weekend saw a blast from the past. Much like long-forgotten pictures of you sporting yesteryear’s fashion you may remember this particular blast fondly, but would never admit that to your friends. PRINCE IS BACK!

OK, so Prince never really went anywhere, he’s not really stopped cashing in on his days at the top. But more than that, He’s actually been releasing at least one album every two years since 1978. His latest 20Ten has probably created the most fuss about the tiny, gender-bending tunester since he changed his name into ‘Love Symbol #2’. Tool. So explosively exciting world-stoppingly remarkable is this new release that it’s being given away free in The Mirror.

Oh come on! This is Prince! I’d expect some roaringly camp announcement of purple smoke, explosions and deed polling, not a freebie that’s more likely to be tossed out with the recycling than be listened to. But having had a listen, that seems about right. Prince is trying to recycle his 80s/90s sound.

Fashion goes in 20-year cycles, it’s the only reason flares aren’t totally extinct and the jumpsuit seems to reappear once in a while. Thankfully music doesn’t do this quite so much, there’s always a slightly new take on the original. Someone should tell Prince.

The album opens with the familiar and dated crash of electro-synth and drum machines that we all got bored of by about 1993. It’s angering to listen to the tiny bloke rolling out the same pompous toss, only it’s new so we can’t get nostalgic about it and are forced to admit that it’s just crap.

The third track on the album, Future Soul Song, is as overbearing as it sounds, trying too hard to capture the ambience of the opening bars of Purple Rain, but sounds more like the soundtrack of a particularly clumsy porn film. The whole album continues on this vein, being dated and wildly uninteresting, never coming close to the highly marketable bulls-eye of “this song might be tacky wank but I had some great times when it was on.” Hell, it even misses the dartboard of “this is tolerable to listen to”.

I wonder if the symbol has seen what a great rise in sales Michael Jackson has had in the last year and thinks all the 80s stars are on the up. If we’re not careful Terence Trent D’Arby will reappear with an equally forgettable release.

Thankfully 20Ten only cost me 65p and I did get a whole newspaper full of stories about mad Geordies with guns, which makes me think – Raoul Moat called it quits at about 1am, probably about the same time The Mirror was starting to deliver 20Ten to the nation. It all starts to make sense now.

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If you don’t have at least a couple of hours to spare – never bring up the topic of earthquakes around Kelly Osbourne’s boyfriend.

If you do, he’ll likely tell you all about how they are a sudden release of energy from deep within the earth, and how they’re caused by plate tectonics. Then, if your experience is anything like ours, the topic of plate tectonics will send him on a Pangea tangent, and he’ll tell you about how the continents are all drifting back together at incredibly slow speeds, and they’re all gonna collide one day causing brand new mountain ranges to pop up all along former coast lines. Oh, also he’ll say something about praying you’re not alive when that time comes.

He even used a laser pointer and a colour-coded slide show. A real pill, we tell ya.

One writer didn’t know earthquakes were the secret passion of Kelly Osbourne‘s newest flame. We’re not sure what boyfriend’s name is, and we really can’t be bothered to check. Let’s just call him Big Gay Bruce. Anyway – one author recently said something about Big Gay Bruce not knowing how an earthquake happens.

This, apparently, led to a slap-happy assault on the author by Osbourne herself – with hands flying everywhere! Except not in the plural!

Imagine for a second what it would be like to have Kelly Osbourne’s beefy little hands touch your face. We think such an encounter would leave you smeared in potato chip grease, and we dearly hope it never happen to us. Our border-line complexion simply couldn’t take it.

Zoe Griffin, a writer for The Mirror, is probably still wiping the shiny palm print from her red swollen cheek. She was Osbourne-slapped because she’d written something or other about Kelly’s current boyfriend being confused on the creation of earthquakes. We’ll let her tell Griffin own story:

“…That’s when she spotted me, plonked herself right next to me on a sofa, so close I had to lean away. She began ear-bashing me about two lines in my column when I wrote her model boyfriend [Big Gay Bruce] had to ask friends how an earthquake was caused. It was at that point Kelly shouted loudly in my ear: “I have an issue with you. My boyfriend knows what an earthquake is and everyone has been laughing at him and he’s upset.

“…That’s when I felt a hard slap to my right cheekbone. I put my hand to my face while my friends looked on aghast. I was in a state of shock. Not for long, though. Soon Kelly came rampaging back over with a female friend jabbing a finger in the air, telling me that I’d have to watch my back if I shared my story with readers of this column.”

Watch her back, no doubt, because if she didn’t Ozzy would swoop down from a belfry to eat her throat – and what a drag that would be. Plus, if he got caught eating some woman’s bloody neck he’d totally go to prison – and then what would happen to all the goths whose musical taste has never advanced out of the seventies? They’d all have to go back to Jethro Tull – which would be really good for all the crap we’re trying to sell on eBay.

We’ve got six copies of ‘Thick As A Brick’ in mint condition and available at rock bottom prices. Cheaper than anything the Osbourne’s were selling anyway.

Mention this article and we’ll throw in a can opener.