In 1979, a car bomb exploded inside the Palace of Westminster, killing Airey Neave, Margaret Thatcher’s closest friend and shadow minister for Northern Ireland. The Irish National Liberation Army, a splinter group of the IRA, claimed responsibility with pride.
Weeks later, my father, Sir Richard (Dick) Francis, put them on television.
He didn’t do it to provoke or to grandstand as might be the case in today’s climate of outrage television. He did it because, as Director of News and Current Affairs at the BBC, he believed the British public had a right to hear the truth — even when it was grim and even when it hurt.
The interview aired, triggering political outrage. Thatcher denounced it in the Commons and the grieving Lady Neave complained, yet the BBC stood its ground.
That decision — and many like it — came at a cost. But it also defined a generation of management at the BBC that had had to understood courage, consequence and moral clarity. These were men who had smelt cordite and led from the front. Dick Francis was one of them.
In fact, I’d say he was the last of them.
Before he ever entered a BBC boardroom, Dick had been an intrepid war producer for the BBC. In the 1960s he filed dispatches from wars in Vietnam, Pakistan, Egypt and several civil wars in newly independent African countries, often under fire. He understood better than most the fog of war, and the true cost of silence. That experience shaped his approach to broadcasting: facts came first, emotion came second. The job of public broadcasting wasn’t to soothe. It was to inform, however uncomfortable that might be.
My new book, The BBC’s Last Warrior-Statesman, tells the story of my father’s battles in the BBC’s boardrooms, from the height of the Cold War to Belfast, and from the Falklands to Whitehall. It’s part biography, part inside history of a BBC under siege.
And it’s also part warning. Because what happened then is happening again, only this time without men like Dick Francis to hold the line.
Back in the 1970s and ’80s, editorial independence was tested daily, and not only by the British Government, which regularly accused Dick of giving voice to terrorists. During the 1974 Ulster Workers’ Strike, Dick oversaw fuel runs across the Northern Irish border, braving both Republican and Loyalist checkpoints so that BBC reporters could keep broadcasting.
But despite the constant barrage, he stayed firm: “You can’t uphold public service broadcasting if you let emotion guide the choices,” he said.
Even when colleagues faltered, he stood by the principle. The Neave interview was approved by him personally. Ian Trethowan, then BBC Director-General, later said the programme was “grim viewing” but backed the decision. Under pressure in Parliament, he wavered, but Dick never did.
In 1982, when Thatcher accused the BBC of being unpatriotic during the Falklands War, Dick calmly and publicly reminded her that “The widow of Portsmouth is no different from the widow of Buenos Aires.” For saying so, he was denounced, yet later appointed Director-General of the British Council, and knighted by Thatcher herself. Even she recognised that in a functioning democracy, the BBC must be the eyes and ears of the public, and independent of those with their own agendas.
Today, more than 30 years after my father’s untimely death, that legacy is under threat. The BBC, once the most trusted voice in the world, is now cornered, cowed, and too often compliant. It is led by commercial executives, not war-hardened diplomats. It fears controversy more than irrelevance. It talks of principle but, perennially short of funds, it shrinks annually, retaining the popular too often at the expense of the good, such as HARDtalk, the world-renowned flagship current affairs programme which was axed earlier this year.
Much is made of the ‘Four Estates’ — Parliament, Police, Judiciary and Press. But as each has been chipped away, a Fifth Estate has emerged: unfiltered, unregulated voices of the internet, shouting louder and faster than any editor. Truth drowns in a tide of opinion. And the traditional press, once our bulwark, is too often tamed or timid.
A recent example underscores this decline. In 2023, the BBC suspended Gary Lineker for tweeting criticism of the UK government’s asylum policy — something that, while being a personal opinion of a sports presenter, still impacted the BBC’s impartiality by his prominent association with the broadcaster. But the BBC soon reversed its decision after a mass walkout of sports presenters and misplaced public outrage. After two years of inaction, it has taken Lineker’s accidental sharing of a social media post including antisemitic imagery earlier this year to force the BBC to deem his position untenable. But its previous reluctance to act with decisiveness has been massively damaging to the broadcaster.
The BBC’s Royal Charter, which comes up again for renewal in 2027, demands it serve the public interest, not chase popularity. But that ideal only holds if someone is willing to defend it.
Dick Francis did. He was bombed and shouted at but he never blinked and he never backed down. There is no doubt in my mind that this was a contributing factor in his ultimate ejection from the BBC, led by rivals who found his ‘old-fashioned’ adherence to Reithian values — to inform, educate and to report without fear or favour — increasingly inconvenient.
But he was right and the lesson is clear: public service broadcasting without backbone becomes nothing better than public relations.
Unless the BBC rediscovers the spirit of leaders like my father — bold, bloody-minded and utterly committed to protecting the broadcaster’s hard-earned reputation for impartiality — the BBC won’t need to be brought down by political enemies. It will simply fade into polite irrelevance.
And when it does, we will lose one of the last great institutions brave enough to hold power to account, once truly the best of British for Britain and the world.
The BBC’s Last Warrior-Statesman: Sir Richard Francis and the Battle to Save the Corporation from Thatcher — and Itself by Stephen R.W. Francis is out now on Amazon, priced £19.99 in paperback and £9.99 as an eBook. For more information, visit www.stephenrwfrancis.com
Q&A Interview with Stephen R.W. Francis
We speak to Stephen R.W. Francis about digging into decades of family archives to define his father’s pivotal role in shaping the BBC’s golden era.
Q. What inspired you to turn your father’s legacy into a biography, and what personal journey did that involve?
A. My brothers and I were struck by how little about him existed online. After prompting a Wikipedia entry, I began digging through archives and boxes in the garage of my father’s second wife, Penny, finding hundreds of postcards, letters, and documents. What started as a family history project became a two-year research journey. I’m not an author by trade, but I grew obsessed — not just with his story, but with the BBC itself. I read every book I could, contacted former colleagues, and fell into the BBC’s rich history. It became both personal and political. I wanted others to know the man and the era.
Q. What role do you think the BBC played in shaping Britain’s identity during your father’s time there?
A. The BBC mirrored Britain during the cultural shift of the 1960s and 70s. Dad and his generation challenged authority, reported global events more directly, and embraced new technologies like satellite broadcasting. With growing licence income, the BBC delivered “Big Events” that shaped public understanding — from election nights to the moon landings. It widened horizons and helped define a more questioning, liberal society.
Q. Your father worked in war zones and faced death threats—what drove him to keep going?
A. He didn’t see it as danger — he saw it as adventure. He was a natural risk-taker, calm under pressure. His mother’s ambitions weighed on him, and he sought her approval through achievement. He wrote to her over 400 times, often from war zones. The BBC gave him a sense of purpose, and the danger only sharpened his resolve.
Q. What surprised you most about the BBC’s internal culture during his era?
A. It reflected its class — Oxbridge, military, and deeply connected to the Establishment. They had fun, drank hard, and did serious journalism with confidence. It was decentralised, well-funded, and tribal — with rivalries between departments and programmes. That competition was encouraged by leadership and created a bold, confident culture.
Q. If your father were alive today, what do you think he would make of the modern media landscape?
A. Mixed emotions. He’d admire the technology and be fascinated by social media. He’d have loved BBC iPlayer and online innovation. But he’d be frustrated by the BBC’s loss of influence and capacity, and he’d likely not recognise its managerial culture. The reduction in the World Service and first-hand foreign reporting would dismay him.
Q. What role did your father play in the BBC’s 1960s transformation under Director-General Hugh Greene?
A. He joined in 1958, just as Greene took over. Dad helped shape news for TV — using visuals and sharp questioning. He pushed for live satellite broadcasting and led Europe’s coverage of the 1969 moon landing. He rose to become editor-in-chief in 1977, and supported innovations like Ceefax, the text-news precursor to the internet.
Q. What lessons can public institutions learn from the BBC’s struggle to remain independent?
A. The BBC was designed to be public but not state-controlled, accountable to Parliament — not government. That structure gave it independence. To remain effective, public institutions must understand their founding principles, maintain relevance, influence power centres, and adapt strategically — without compromising their core mission. The BBC has lost ground here since the Thatcher era.
Q. What were the roots of your father’s clashes with BBC Director-General Alasdair Milne in the 1980s?
A. It began with structural instability. Television gained too much autonomy under Wheldon, and Alasdair Milne was later promoted without reform. Dad, as Director of News and Current Affairs, clashed with Milne’s style and team. The Board of Governors weakened after Thatcher appointed Stuart Young and William Rees-Mogg. Factions emerged, oversight faltered, and when Thatcher pushed for reform, the BBC was divided and vulnerable.
Q. What do you hope readers walk away with—whether they’re media professionals or just interested in British history?
A. The BBC is still vital. Its founding principles remain relevant. This book is both a serious history and a cracking yarn — a reminder of the BBC’s role in democracy, and how much it matters that we get its future right.