'GB News Overrates its Ratings' by Andrew Davies—guest blogger

GB News is claiming a "seismic moment" in British broadcasting. Why? Because in July 2025, it barely managed to edge past the BBC News Channel in average daily viewership. But behind the chest-thumping, the reality is far less impressive, and far more revealing.

According to BARB, GB News averaged around 80,600 daily viewers last month, edging just ahead of the BBC News Channel’s 78,700. That’s a lead of fewer than 2,000 people. GB News has also announced strong performance in key time slots like breakfast and weekday evenings, framing it as a transformative moment in UK broadcasting. But dominating a few hours in the day on a low-reach channel like GB News doesn’t make it a media powerhouse—it simply confirms its status as a niche outlet with a loyal, if limited, audience.

GB News has always styled itself as the underdog ("the channel for people who feel unheard") but what it really offers is a steady diet of manufactured grievance and culture war talking points. If it’s drawing in viewers, it’s not because of journalistic rigour. It’s because it knows how to serve outrage with breakfast and paranoia with the evening headlines.

And yet even within its own narrow definition of success, the victory is hollow. When we look at the broader picture, the BBC remains overwhelmingly dominant.

GB News might have edged a daily average, but the BBC News Channel’s weekly reach still far exceeds it—often more than double. That means more people across the UK are watching the BBC, even if only briefly, while GB News relies on a smaller base of habitual viewers. That is not really growth, but more like saturation.

Then there’s the rest of the BBC's output, which dwarfs anything GB News could hope to match. BBC One’s Breakfast, Six O’Clock News and Ten O’Clock News still reach massive audiences. None of those numbers are included in the News Channel’s BARB figures. And that’s before we even include iPlayer and the BBC’s website and app, which together draw more than 40 million users. GB News online just draws over 10 million.

And radio? The BBC’s network of national and regional stations delivers news to millions more every day. GB News, by contrast, doesn’t even try.

So GB News, despite its claims of speaking for "the people", still trails badly in that department. You can game viewing figures for a time, especially when your programming verges on the sensational, but you can't manufacture credibility.

If anything, this supposed breakthrough shows the limits of GB News. It’s carved out a niche. That’s all. A vocal, partisan slice of the public is watching more intently, but that doesn't mean the channel is reshaping British media. It means it's doubling down on its core audience while alienating the rest.

So despite all the noise GB News makes, it’s still playing catch-up.

‘The Poetics of Ambiguity: Romanticism, Empiricism and the Modern Mind’ - free ebook

The new ebook from Argotist Ebooks is ‘The Poetics of Ambiguity: Romanticism, Empiricism and the Modern Mind’ by Jeffrey Side.

Description: 

“This book began life as a doctoral thesis written between 2000 and 2007, a period during which I became increasingly disillusioned with the dominant aesthetic assumptions underpinning both Romantic and contemporary mainstream poetry. At the heart of my research was a single question: why did so much poetry—even that which purported to challenge cultural norms—remain epistemologically conservative? Why did it continue to treat language as a transparent medium, perception as unmediated access to reality and the self as a stable, expressive core? The answer, I gradually came to realise, lay in the unexamined legacy of empiricism. What I found in Romantic poetry—especially that of Wordsworth, Coleridge and their successors—was not the radical inwardness or imaginative freedom often celebrated in literary histories, but rather a poetics that remained fundamentally tethered to an Enlightenment faith in perception and observation. Far from breaking with empiricism, Romanticism often perpetuated its core assumptions, reconfiguring them within a poetic vocabulary that lent affective weight to what were essentially epistemological structures of the empirical gaze.” 

Available as a free ebook here: 

https://argotistebooks.blogspot.com/2025/07/the-poetics-of-ambiguity-romanticism.html

The Evolution of the Western Film Score

I first came across the music of Aaron Copland in 1989. I already knew that his work had influenced the sound of Hollywood Western film scores, most notably Elmer Bernstein’s The Magnificent Seven. I had assumed Copland had been the only influence behind this kind of music. I didn’t realise that what we now think of as “Western” film music had developed over time, influenced by several composers before Hollywood adopted it as the sound of the cinematic American West.

One of those earlier composers was Ferde Grofé. His Grand Canyon Suite came out in 1931, before Copland produced a similar sound with Prairie Journal in 1937. Though not written for film, its sweeping orchestration would go on to influence Hollywood composers during the 1940s.

While Grofé wasn’t a film composer himself, his orchestrational style gave Hollywood composers new techniques for evoking the American West. This can be heard in Max Steiner’s score for They Died with Their Boots On (1941), which has strong similarities to Grofé’s Grand Canyon Suite.

Before the 1940s, the Western genre had no fixed musical identity. Early Westerns relied on film orchestrations that followed general film music conventions, without any attempt to sound specifically “American” or “frontier”.

That changed with composers like Dimitri Tiomkin and Jerome Moross. Tiomkin’s scores for Red River (1948) and High Noon (1952) incorporated folk melodies, hymns, guitar and harmonica. And Moross’s score for The Big Country (1958) had a spacious feel that matched the landscape.

So far, we’ve looked at how this musical style evolved through Grofé and the film composers he influenced. Now we will look at how Copland’s music fits into this evolution.

As mentioned earlier, Copland’s first foray into the kind of sound we now associate with the American West came with Prairie Journal. While this was not written with Western tropes in mind, it used many of the musical elements (open harmonies, folk-like melodies and a sense of spaciousness) that, as we have seen, would later become associated with cinematic depictions of the American West.

The following year, Copland’s ballet, Billy the Kid (1938), marked a turning point. It used cowboy songs, square dance rhythms, and a more minimalist style of orchestration. Although it was written for the stage, it would define how the West sounded in film, especially by the 1960s, when Elmer Bernstein drew heavily on it for his score for The Magnificent Seven.

Interestingly, though Copland had written a score for the 1948 Western, The Red Pony, it had no influence on Western film music in the '40s and '50s.

What emerges, then, from this brief history is not one clear origin point for Western film music, but two separate paths developing alongside each other. One came from Grofé (lush, grand and pictorial), which dominated the Hollywood Westerns of the '40s and '50s. The other came from Copland (minimalist, folk-based and direct), which became predominant in the 1960s and thereafter.

Exposing the Flaws in the Observer’s Salt Path Critique

A recent article in The Observer called ‘The real Salt Path: how a blockbuster book and film were spun from lies, deceit and desperation’ has caused some controversy. It presents a damning investigation into Raynor Winn’s bestselling memoir The Salt Path, calling into question its truthfulness and suggesting that Winn and her husband “Moth” built their public image on a foundation of legal trouble, financial misconduct and selective storytelling.

While the article presents serious claims, and cites multiple sources to support them, its tone, framing and rhetorical style raise their own questions, about journalistic bias, assumption-laden reporting and what truth in memoir really means.

From the headline alone, the tone is set: “spun from lies, deceit and desperation”, is not neutral language. It prepares the reader for scandal before the evidence has even begun. This isn’t unusual in click-bait media, but in investigative reporting, such language can subtly (or not so subtly) shape a reader’s judgement.

Throughout the article, sources who speak critically of Winn (especially Ros Hemmings, a former employer’s widow) are presented as credible and emotionally grounded, while Winn herself is largely silent, represented only by a short legal statement. The article makes no serious attempt to balance its narrative with a fuller version of Winn’s perspective. The effect is to turn one side of a complex story into a presumed truth.

The article depends heavily on Winn’s past legal and financial troubles, most notably an alleged embezzlement case from 2008, settled out of court with a non-disclosure agreement. It’s a serious allegation, but the reporting treats this as a smoking gun that discredits The Salt Path entirely, without acknowledging that memoirs often include omission, thematic shaping and selective focus.

Similarly, the article notes that Winn and her husband owned property in France during their supposed "homelessness", and later refers to it as "uninhabitable". But this key context is folded into a paragraph mid-article, with little exploration of what "uninhabitable" actually meant in practice. The framing leans toward suspicion rather than clarity. If the property was uninhabitable in the sense that it could not be lived in, then Win and her husband were indeed homeless. The lack of clarity about this in the article, allows for the implication that they had options that they hid from readers. That might be technically true, but without examining the real condition or accessibility of that French property, the reporting veers into insinuation.

An assumption running through the article is that because Winn omitted parts of her past, she must have intended to deceive. But memoir is not autobiography. It’s an inherently selective genre, based around emotional truth and narrative arcs, not exhaustive chronology. Many people who write memoirs, write under pseudonyms, simplify time-lines, or emphasise thematic resonance over literal precision.

The article also assumes that because some readers were moved by the story, they might have acted on it in misguided ways, and that therefore Winn’s alleged misrepresentations could cause “real harm”. That claim is speculative and unsupported by evidence. It functions as a rhetorical device, not a documented consequence.

One of the strongest challenges raised in the article is over Moth’s diagnosis of corticobasal degeneration (CBD). Several neurologists are quoted expressing scepticism about the longevity and reversibility of his symptoms as portrayed in the book. Yet even here, the article admits there is nothing to disprove the diagnosis. It also acknowledges that medical anomalies do happen.

Ultimately, the article tries to draw a hard line between fact and fable in a literary form that has never been that tidy. The claim that The Salt Path misrepresents Winn’s life might have merit, but does that invalidate the emotional and symbolic journey that so many readers found meaningful?

The article suggests that Winn’s supposed deceptions disqualify her from telling a redemptive story. But that’s a moral judgement, not a literary one. The uncomfortable reality is that flawed people can write true things, and inspirational books don’t have to be written by saints. Of course, redemptive arcs can be misused or feel too convenient—but that doesn’t mean they’re always inauthentic, or that "flawed" narrators can’t earn them.

The article raises serious questions. It uncovers contradictions, omitted facts and unresolved tensions between the private past and the public story. But its tone is adversarial. 

It’s worth noting that the journalist behind the Observer piece, Chloe Hadjimatheou, was previously found by the BBC’s own Executive Complaints Unit to have breached editorial standards in a separate investigation—specifically, a 2021 Radio 4 documentary that included false claims and unsupported insinuations. The BBC later admitted the programme failed to meet its accuracy standards. Given this prior finding, it’s reasonable to approach her current reporting with caution—especially when it relies heavily on implication and selective framing.

This kind of history suggests a need for caution when weighing reporting that relies heavily on implication and selective framing.

Good journalism should probe. But when it loses sight of balance, it can resemble the thing it critiques.

The Genius of ‘Twelve Poems of Emily Dickinson’ by Aaron Copland

Emily Dickinson’s poetry can often seem reserved and difficult to access when just read on the page. Her writing is usually short and indirect, and sometimes seems emotionally distant. But if we look more closely, there is much going on beneath the surface. Her poems deal with major themes like nature, grief, love, death and the inner life: all explored in a very personal and introspective way.

The composer, Aaron Copland, inspired by Dickinson's poetry, created a musical setting for twelve of her poems. By doing this, he brought out the emotional intensity that might not always be obvious in the written text. Instead of making the poems more dramatic or adding lots of flourishes, He used subtle musical choices to highlight what was already there. His settings seem to “breathe” life into the words, revealing the feelings hidden within them. The result is a powerful balance between simplicity and deep emotion, where Dickinson’s careful language interacts with his expressive music.

The collection, called Twelve Poems of Emily Dickinson does not follow a narrative, but the order of the pieces, nevertheless, creates a sense of emotional movement. It begins with awe at the beauty in nature, then moves into more painful subjects like loss, and ends with a quiet reflection on death. Copland never forces meaning onto the poems, instead, his music surrounds the text gently, helping the listener to hear Dickinson’s voice more clearly.

Rather than just being musical accompaniments, his settings feel like they are thinking and feeling alongside the poems, and so amplify the feeling in Dickinson’s work. He captures her mix of clarity and mystery, belief and doubt, and even the emotional tension that sometimes is just below the surface. Together, the poems and the music create something that is both intimate and powerful.

Here are a few selections from the work, with brief commentary:

‘Nature, the gentlest mother’

This opening piece sets a gentle and peaceful mood. Copland’s music helps bring out the softer, more nurturing side of Dickinson’s poem. The musical accompaniment flows calmly, and the vocal line is smooth and relaxed. This matches the poem’s idea of nature as patient and kind, even to those who do not seem to deserve it. There’s also a quiet sense of reverence, as if the music is skirting around something sacred. At the same time, the music does not ignore the slight irony in the poem: it leaves room for the listener to notice that this version of nature might be more complicated than it first appears.

‘Why do they shut me out of Heaven?’

This piece is emotional and urgent. Copland uses sudden changes in rhythm and dynamics to show the speaker’s frustration and confusion. The question in the title seems like a real cry, not just a rhetorical question. The line ‘Did I sing too loud?’ becomes an intense moment in the music, where the speaker seems to be reduced to a state of anguished vulnerability. This turns the poem from something that might seem distant or sardonic into something raw and personal. Copland makes the pain and longing in the poem feel very real.

‘Heart, we will forget him!’

This is probably the most emotional piece in the work. The poem is about trying to forget someone you loved, and Copland captures that with music that is slow, quiet and full of pauses. The voice sounds hesitant, as if the speaker is not sure she can really achieve what she is aiming at: to forget her lover. The music also seems to hold back, which adds to the feeling of sadness and inner conflict. There is a sense that though the speaker is declaring that she will forget her lover, the music suggests that forgetting is going to be much harder than she is willing to admit.

‘I felt a funeral in my brain’

This piece is unsettling and intense. The music uses sounds that mimic bells or footsteps, and the rhythms feel unstable, which matches the poem’s description of mental anguish. As the poem continues, the music becomes stranger and more disjointed, showing how the speaker is losing touch with reality. On the page, this poem can feel quite abstract or abstruse, but Copland’s music makes the experience physical and immediate. It feels like we are inside the speaker’s mind as she unravels.

‘Because I could not stop for Death’

The final piece in the work is calm and slow, with a peaceful mood. Copland does not make the idea of death frightening, but presents it as something gentle and inevitable. The steady pace of the music gives the feeling of a slow journey, which fits the poem’s description of being carried by Death in a carriage. The vocal line does not rush, and the music is soft and even. This creates a mood of acceptance rather than fear. The ending feels like a quiet conclusion, not a dramatic finish, which works well for the reflective tone of the poem.

What makes Twelve Poems of Emily Dickinson so effective is that Copland does not try to make the poems overly dramatic or emotional. Instead of adding lavish musical gestures, he keeps everything simple and understated: just like Dickinson’s writing, which often says a lot with very few words. His music does not take over the poems, but gently brings out the feelings already inside them. Rather than changing Dickinson’s work, Copland seems to complete it.

An Analysis of Internal Contradictions in The Beach Boys’ ‘God Only Knows’

I was saddened to hear of the recent passing of Brian Wilson, a towering figure in pop music whose influence extends far beyond his renowned work in arrangements, harmonies and production. While not all of his lyrics were celebrated as literary masterpieces, many were marked by an honesty and heartfelt sincerity.

One of my favourite songs of his is ‘God Only Knows’, and on hearing the news of his death, I listened to it again and, for the first time, noticed a subtle yet significant contradiction in its opening verse—an observation that prompted a deeper look into the song’s lyrical complexity.

‘God Only Knows’ is widely regarded as one of the most enduring love songs in popular music. Its lyrical and musical composition has been extensively praised, yet a closer examination of the lyrics reveals subtle internal contradictions that enrich the emotional complexity of the song. These contradictions, far from detracting from the song’s impact, contribute to a nuanced exploration of love’s multifarious nature.

The song opens with a notably paradoxical statement: “I may not always love you”. This admission of potential faltering introduces an element of vulnerability that is uncommon in traditional love songs, which often prioritise unwavering devotion from the outset. However, this initial doubt is almost immediately countered by the lines: “But long as there are stars above you / You never need to doubt it / I’ll make you so sure about it”. This rapid transition from doubt to certainty creates an abrupt juxtaposition, which can be interpreted in multiple ways. It might reflect an honest acknowledgement of love’s fragility while simultaneously offering reassurance. Alternatively, the swift negation of the initial doubt could be seen as diminishing the emotional weight of vulnerability, presenting it as a mere rhetorical device rather than a genuine conflict.

This opening tension between uncertainty and assurance sets the tone for the song’s subsequent exploration of emotional dependence. The singer’s hypothetical contemplation of abandonment (“If you should ever leave me / Well, life would still go on, believe me”) introduces a pragmatic stance, recognising the inevitability of life’s continuation despite personal loss. Yet, this rational acceptance is immediately contradicted by the assertion: “The world could show nothing to me / So what good would living do me?” This contradiction mirrors the complex interplay between reason and emotion that characterises human experience. While intellectually acknowledging the persistence of life, the singer simultaneously conveys the existential emptiness wrought by separation from the beloved.

The refrain “God only knows what I’d be without you” functions as a thematic anchor, repeated throughout the song to underscore the profound dependence the singer places upon the loved one. The phrase’s ambiguity (avoiding specification of the singer’s state in the absence of the beloved) invites multiple interpretations, encompassing notions of loss, disorientation or incompleteness. This repetition serves both to emphasise devotion and to reflect the unresolved uncertainty that accompanies deep emotional attachment.

These internal contradictions, rather than detracting from the song’s coherence, serve to articulate the inherent ambivalence and complexity of love. Love is neither monolithic nor static; it encompasses doubt and certainty, hope and despair, rationality and emotionality. The song’s lyrical tensions thus mirror the lived experience of love’s contradictions, lending ‘God Only Knows’ its enduring resonance and emotional authenticity.

The internal contradictions present within ‘God Only Knows’ contribute significantly to its artistic depth. The juxtaposition of doubt and affirmation, pragmatic acceptance and emotional devastation, encapsulates the multifarious nature of human love. This nuanced portrayal transcends simplistic romantic idealisation, offering instead a rich, honest and timeless reflection on love’s profound complexities.

I can’t conclude without mentioning the excellent cover version of the song by Andy Williams, recorded in 1967. This rendition eschews the cheerful and chirpy arrangements of the original Beach Boys recording, replacing them with a concerto-like orchestral arrangement that is more reflective and mournful in mood—qualities that align well with the gravitas of the lyrics. The result is almost hymn-like in its solemnity and reverence.