Fuck The Guardian

Nearly spat out my high fibre breakfast (and half pint of organic yak’s milk) when flicking through today’s Guardian.

Fuck. Ing. Hell

I am NOT the story. I am the man behind the scenes who creates the story. Who pulls the strings. Who makes the dream happen. I’m the man responsible for the next wave of itchy reality formats for the myspace generation.

I am NOT the fucking scarlet pimpernel of the industry. Why can’t I record my personal and professional thoughts without fear of a witch hunt!? What next? Chasing my Rabbi down the street for a quote?

It is absolutely imperative that my profile is under the radar. You haven’t seen ME on BBC Breakfast this week having to defend my bad taste editorial decisions (Hello Hamish).

With regret, I have no choice but to sack Herring. This is the third time his PR has let me down. First, that Broadcast rag piece, then the Celebrity Big Brother disaster – and now this!!!

I’m trying to crack on with my Massively Important role as a creative television visionary but instead I have to deal with personality assassinations by 'anonymous' (ie spineless) TV producers calling me arrogant. The same spineless producers who will smile in my face on Monday morning; WHO HAVE FINANCED THEIR KIDS THROUGH OXFORD ON MY FUCKING SUCCESS REMEMBER!

People should welcome my openness. I'm breaking NEW, EXCITING, BOLD ground with the first EVER blog communicating directly to the viewer. And this is the thanks I get from my jealous contemporaries?

Typical.