This is Gillie Potter, speaking from Hogsnorton. Tonight I am to tell a wondering world the truth about the BBC.

First then, what is the BBC? The BBC is an august body, July elected in September, which meets each year on April the first and, after a meat tea, makes a thorough search of the cellars under the House of Lords, after which they wait to see whether Oxford or Cambridge wins, and then go home for another year or up till the following Tuesday according to the Weather Report and the state of their finances.

Next: where is the BBC? The BBC is in London, at a place called Savoy 'ill, so named after that Duke of Savoy who was never really well. It is a large building entirely surrounded by alleys, which enable the officials to escape censure, and the vaudeville artistes to escape arrest. There are two ways in: the principal entrance is reminiscent of St Marks at Venice, without entirely losing sight of the signal box at Chipping Sodbury. Through this portico enter the brains and beauty of the BBC. Not only Lady Mary Mouthorgan, who screams across England titles of her own compositions like The Squirrels' Breakfast, and My Love Lies Bloodshot, but also Professor Tottlebuttock, the authority on old waistcoats, who pesters the public periodically with some such stuff as How I Avoid Sundays and Why Zulus Dislike Asparagus. Round the corner from this splendid gateway, under an arch and up an alley, is another door outside which stand three dustbins and two detectives. Need I say that by this door enter all the vaudeville artistes?

Let us return, however, to the gate of glory, and await the arrival of the exotics. Ah, here comes Doctor Diapason, the musical magnate, followed by his man carrying a basket of quavers and a large bass clef. Liveried flunkeys bow his eminence toward the under-official, who bows him to the over-official, who bows him to the horse-hair and mother-of-pearl piano, at which the Doctor sits down, plays the Spanish Chant with one finger, Horsey, Keep Your Tail Up with the other, and then says "Well done, the Ashby-de-la-Zouch Primary School. That's a pretty tune, that was. I will now ask Mr Goosegrease to whistle it for us." Whereupon a tall youth wearing alpaca boots and a martingale gives a short solo on the teeth and the séance is over.

An official then advances with a massive gold salver, on which reposes a cheque for two thousand guineas, snatching which, the Doctor descends to the drawing room, preceded by the Mace Bearer, two Girl Guides, the Chief Announcer's God-mother and a Turncock. The drawing room, I may state is the sanctum sanctorum of the BBC. No common clay is permitted within its sacred precinct. Indeed, over the portal is a large printed notice, which reads 'No Vaudeville Artistes', to which some member of the board has appended, in fair standard seven handwriting, the happy afterthought 'Not on no account'.

Opening the diamond and ruby-studded doors, one enters the cosy chamber some two hundred yards square, luxuriously furnished with an armchair with no arms, a sewing machine, two cuspidors, a pleasing print portraying the winning of the Northampton Plate by Stewed Prune at Towcester in 1881, and a copy of last year's Board of Trade Regulations for the importation of camels.

Two people—I apologise—two distinguished personages already occupy certain cubic space within this lordly hall. The taller one, with a head two sizes too big and an overcoat several sizes too small, is Colonel Dogscocking, who has just treated the universe to his views on the present state of affairs in Sciatica. The other worthy, with pink eyes and a bag of peanuts, is the Honourable Bertram Buttonhook, son and heir of Lord Elastic-Sides. In ten minutes, he is due to deliver his daily discourse, today's dose being designated Fun With Fleas. Withal most interesting, that is the room and its comforts, not the talk on Sciatica which was too painful, or the humour of an insect life which will be rather biting.

The Doctor's arrival in the drawing-room is the signal for much hearty greeting, hand shaking and borrowing of tram fares. Servants then bear in costly viands on priceless trays which with no weeping but considerable gnashing of teeth are disposed of, and the Doctor produces a cigar from his left boot, which he breaks into three pieces, offering the ends to his friends, and keeping the centre, with the band on, for himself. But this luxury is overpowering. Let us descend to the basement, the little door up the dark alleyway and see what is doing in vaudeville circles.

The dustbins are still there, but the detectives have gone, which means that one turn will be missing from tonight's programme. Here come three poor wretches, carrying brown-paper parcels. A janitor, a stern ex-lifeboatman with a black beard and a fawn Homburg, demands their names. Each is then siezed by a burly attendant and rushed upstairs and down lifts, and up lifts and downstairs, until they arrive at a door marked 'Cleansing Department'. On entering they are confronted by a marble-topped table at which sits a gentleman whose appearance suggests Borstal, but whose spelling marks him as an Old Etonian. This is Mr Cyril Carbolic, Censor-in-Chief to the honourable Board of the British Broadcasting Corporation, Savoy Hill, London, West Central, Please Write Clearly in Block Letters, No Change Given, this rack is for Light Articles Only.

Threequarters of an hour elapse, when suddenly Mr Carbolic lifts from the table a cottage loaf which he has been using as a paperweight, takes the silver pen from between his gold teeth, and shouts "Listen, comics, cut out all reference to China, cheesemites and Winston Churchill". Attendants then rush the wretches to the housekeeper, who washes their necks, combs their hair and arrays each of them in a blue overall, bearing in front, in large letters the words 'Stolen from the BBC'. The vaudeville artistes are then manacled, and led to the microphone.

Their pitiful efforts to entertain beng over, each receives a white card, entitling him to his fee or a good meal, whichever is preferred. Many choose the meal, although some take the ninepence. The card system has been found necessary as a means of identification, for in July last, one vaudeville artiste whose mission was to make a noise like a guillotine, basely deserted his post before the end of the revolution and descended to the treasury to demand his fee. On being asked who he was, he replied 'Christopher Stone', and was given twelve and sixpence. If we return with the vaudeville artistes to the little door we shall be in time to see the cattle being driven in to be valued by the announcer who gives us the Fat Stock Prices at tea-time.

Throughout the building, large arrows direct one to the bar, and the fact that these arrows point in every direction makes them none the less useful, for the BBC building is ideal in that all roads lead to the bar. The bar is a spacious room, half a mile or more long but not any too large for its purpose, as it is invariably crowded; indeed, the quickest and surest way of interviewing anyone at the BBC is to go straight to the bar. Rows of bottles containing costly liquors are marked 'For Announcers Only', while at one end a large churn of milk is labelled 'Reserved for Henry Hall and his Band'. And it is a moving sight, to see the tired trombone or the exhausted euphonium gazing enviously at the announcers' alcohol but nobly demanding a double Alderney with a dash of Jersey. At the end of the bar is a small, Hole of Calcutta-like chamber with sawdust on the floor, illuminated by means of a candle stuck in a flower-pot. Need I state that this is labelled 'Reserved for Vaudeville Artistes'?"