There was a moment, somewhere around 1990, when I sincerely believed that the most important thing my mother did each evening was sit down at 9.00pm sharp to watch the news.
Not 9.01pm. Not 8.59pm. Nine, on the dot, because that was when the news began, because Sir Alastair Burnet had decided it was so, and because the rest of the United Kingdom, including, by the look of it, the entire cabinet, appeared to be doing exactly the same thing. The country ran on a single national rhythm, like a great wheezing grandfather clock, and the people who set the time wore tailored suits and lived in a place called Wood Lane.
That rhythm is now thoroughly, demonstrably, embarrassingly dead. And the people doing the burying are not bedroom-bound teenagers in TikTok-stained pyjamas. They are the very figures who built the broadcast schedule in the first place.
Take Stephen Colbert. Forty-eight hours after CBS finally smothered The Late Show with a corporate pillow, the network insists this had nothing to do with the lawsuit, the Skydance merger or the present occupant of the Oval Office, and we are of course expected to accept that assertion at the value of a Liz Truss lettuce, Colbert popped up on a public-access channel called Monroe Community Media. Then he popped up, rather more pointedly, on his shiny new YouTube channel, with Eminem and Jeff Daniels in tow, gathering 120,000 subscribers in a single weekend. No 11.35pm slot. No commercial break. No procession of Affiliate Sales stations of the cross. Just Stephen, a camera, and the most generous tip jar in the history of broadcasting.
A few months earlier, Piers Morgan walked off the Murdoch reservation entirely, to which I would normally raise a single languid eyebrow, but the man left a reported £50 million on the table to do it. He has called the TalkTV slot a “straitjacket”. He has 3.6 million YouTube subscribers and a four-year arrangement that hands him ownership of his own brand. Trump, Zelensky, Peterson, Ronaldo: all interviewed not for the dignified British 10 o’clock viewer but for a global congregation that watches him in Brisbane, Boston and bed.
And while the talent is bolting for the exits, the institutions are quietly digging tunnels under the perimeter fence. The BBC, that great, lumbering, well-meaning monument to the licence fee, is putting the finishing touches on a landmark deal to produce original shows for YouTube. Why? Because, mortifyingly, YouTube has overtaken BBC One on monthly reach in this country. The corporation that gave us Reith, Attenborough and Bake Off is now obliged to commission content for the same platform that hosts cats falling off skirting boards. The licence fee, it turns out, doesn’t beat free.
The numbers, for those of us who still pretend to be grown-ups, are devastating. Per Ofcom’s Media Nations 2025 report, Britons aged 16 to 24 now watch a startling 33 minutes of broadcast television a day, of which barely 20 minutes is live; they spend an hour and a half on YouTube and TikTok. For someone over 75, broadcast still hoovers up 90 per cent of in-home viewing. For a 16-year-old, it is 19 per cent. We are not, as is so often claimed, watching the gradual decline of an industry. We are watching its will being read.
Across the Atlantic, Nielsen’s Gauge confirms YouTube has now spent six consecutive months as the single largest distributor of television in America, larger than Disney, larger than NBCUniversal, larger than the entire stricken cable bundle put together. YouTube earned $36 billion in ad revenue in 2024, more than all four American broadcast networks combined. The schedule, to put it baldly, has been replaced by the search bar. The time slot has been replaced by the thumbnail.
The business lesson here is not “everyone should start a YouTube channel”. Please don’t. You’ll fail, embarrass your spouse and spend Saturdays editing in your shed. The lesson, for those of us building businesses outside the M25 commentary bubble, is rather more important than that. Ownership, distribution and audience relationship are now the three things that actually count, and the platform that delivers all three at once is winning. Witness Gary Lineker’s Goalhanger Ventures putting capital into creator-led media businesses precisely because the old playbook, make show, hand to broadcaster, hope, is demonstrably worse than the new one. The talent keeps the IP. The talent keeps the audience. The talent, increasingly, is the broadcaster.
The slot, that great totem of the 20th-century media baron, was never about the viewer. It was about logistics, advert breaks, satellite uplinks, union breaks, Carol Vorderman’s hairdresser. The viewer wanted the show. They never wanted nine o’clock. And now, at last, they don’t have to take both.
Sir Alastair Burnet, sleep well.
Read more:
Goodbye 11.35pm: Why linear tv’s biggest names are all fleeing to YouTube