Hi, my name is Alan, and I ask you to lend me your ears. For I am a serious man. I am a man of gravitas and a veteran of broadcasting. People here at the Beeb know me as, well, let's just say, they know me as Alan. And of course, people here, they call me Alan. Indeed they do. And that is the name that I go by on a day to day basis. But you, the public, the licence-fee paying public, you can call me That guy whose contribution to broadcasting nobody really appreciates. And that is me. Alan... that guy. Now, leaving that aside, I have come here today to talk to you about a very, very serious issue indeed.
This, I will tell you now, is a very sad day for the BBC. A giant of broadcasting, a beacon of light entertainment, a veritable talk show genius has walked out through the hallowed doors of the Television Centre for the last time, never, never ever to return. He has climbed onto his camel and headed off into the wild blue yonder, or the yellow-brown desert perhaps. He will not turn his head to look back - no, not once. For he no longer cares. What is this man's name? His name is Jonathan.
That this Jonathan has tired of interviewing people on his vibrant, his magical talk show is indeed sad. But that it comes after a long campaign of hatred and vituperation waged by members of the public, by whingeing licence-fee payers and by members of the publishing - and I stress publishing - media is, for an old broadcasting trooper like myself frankly gutwrenching. Indeed, it is beyond reason. It is, in the words of Lord Reith, fucking crazy.
This Jonathan once made an error, a very minor error. This Jonathan, this humble genius, had the temerity to tell an old man that his best mate, someone cunningly, someone cleverly called Russell, had, as it were, fucked the old fellow's grand-daughter.
Now this grand-daughter was someone of, I might say, very little distinction, of dubious character - unlike myself, Jonathan and Russell. Yet the whingeing licence fee payer took exception to this so-called slur on that very grand-daughter's integrity and demanded that Russell and Jonathan be sacked. Now Russell went and Jonathan stayed, he limped on for a few months more.
But now, now he, Jonathan, has gone.
And I ask: Is this what Britain's long and noble history of championing free speech has lead to? Is this why the late, great Tom Paine was imprisoned? Is it? Just so that in the Twenty First Century - THE TWENTY FIRST CENTURY, NO LESS - a free and noble thinker called Jonathan Ross could be hounded out of the greatest television centre in the world?
I think not! I truly think not. And yet, here we are. Ross has gone. And he is not coming back.
So let me just finish by saying this: I hope, I really hope that the critics are happy now. But I hope much much more that they one day repent and realise that, just as it was for Socrates, just as it was for Galileo, and JUST as it was for the late, great Jade Goody, a giant, a blooming (literally) genius has this day departed, has this day been brought down by a stinking and rancid bunch of PIGMIES that you and I and fair Jonathan know as the 'licence fee payer'.
So, Sic transit Gloria Mundi. And I indeed am truly sick - SICK - about the passing of the glorious, adore-i-ous Mr Jonathan Ross.
And you Lord Reith, you the great guiding light, you are, I can safely say, right now, turning in your somewhat unfashionable, yet, I'm sure, sympathetic grave.