The Broadcasting Standards Council
................I wish to complain in the strongest possible terms about the content of the Channel Four programme 'Station X'. While ostensibly a documentary about the efforts of the code-breaking team at Bletchley Park to crack the German Enigma machine during the Second World War, it was in reality a thinly-disguised excuse to wallow in filth.
................First of all we were told of female staff members' reaction to pioneering computer genius Alan Turing: 'Alan was very shy, especially with women. But he was so brilliant we all adored him.' Next we were coyly informed that the women outnumbered the men by a large ratio. Later, it was revealed that, due to the primitive nature of the technology, the computer room got so hot that the WRENs operating it often worked stripped to their underwear.
................One needs no very lascivious imagination to picture the scenes that must surely have occurred at Bletchley. One can envisage only too easily how it must have been during those long, tense shifts in the computer room. Twenty or thirty nubile, scantily-clad young women moving about with a cool efficiency, performing their arcane rituals like votaries in the service of some gleaming metal idol. Occasionally, several of the younger ones will start giggling and frolicking as they compare breasts, play with each other's nipples, or slyly pinch one another's naked limbs, but an imperious look from their high priestess quickly restores them to sobriety. Yet the sultry heat in the room is growing, feeling like an invisible tongue licking at every inch of their skin, and beneath their calm, capable facades sexual hysteria is mounting. And now into this hormonal tinderbox walks Turing with the new instructions for the computer. Turing, the adored one, the genius, begetter of the wondrous machine they so joyfully serve. "Yipee, here comes Professor Turing!" cry the younger girls, jiggling gleefully. Not a woman there but yearns to cradle his heavy, brain-filled skull on her bosom. Turing is made to walk a gauntlet of female beauty and sexual invitation. Hair is tossed and eyelashes are batted. This one smiles, that one pouts, another, with an ingenuous cry of, "Whoops!", arranges for her bra to pop off as he passes. But the shy and, unknown to them, homosexual Turing passes through them oblivious to their womanly charms. If his brilliance arouses them, his indifference piques them, provoking them to ever more brazen enticements in their desperation to attract his notice. Oh, those naughty, naughty girls. They disport themselves like nautch-dancers or recline on desks like odalisques, languorous and heavy-lidded with desire. Bosoms are projected and haunches gyrated; those who have acquired black-market nylons (bartered for with who knows what acts of depravity) slowly unroll them to reveal long, smooth, shockingly nude legs. His head filled with esoteric equations, Turing reaches the computer controls not one whit moved. There, the high priestess, the Captain of the Wrens - elected such by her fellows by virtue of her beauty and extreme voluptuousness - awaits him with her hands on her hips and a proud tilt to her lovely head. "I'm afraid you've caught us in our underwear again, Professor," she purrs challengingly. Turing, man of stone, merely mumbles and starts to punch in commands. The girls crowd eagerly around, pressing their bodies against his, gripping his shoulders in anticipation, breathing down his neck in short excited gasps. Scarcely aware of them, Turing fires the computer up to full power. The younger girls cry, "Oh, goody!" and clap and bounce and giggle with joy. A low resonant thrum starts to build up, vibrating through their whole bodies, throbbing with an insistent primeval beat, hinting at reserves of unimaginable power. The girls can contain themselves no longer. With a shriek the Wren captain throws Turing to the floor and flings herself on top of him, clawing frenziedly at his clothes, determined that he shall submit to the feminine principle. With one accord the other girls follow. His protests losts in their screams of ecstasy, his clothes ripped and bitten to shreds, Turing is submerged beneath writhing naked female bodies. Those on the outskirts who cannot touch, kiss or nibble him fall to comforting and caressing each other or worshipping his machine, writhing against it and tonguing its valves until, wracked beyond endurance, it billows steam and shoots out ticker-tape in some cataclysmic mechanical orgasm.
................How Channel Four can broadcast this sort of porn at seven o'clock on a Saturday evening is beyond me.
................I remain, sir,
................Disgusting of Tunbridge Wells