bbc turned a blind eye to Jimmy Saville, not saying the two are the same but Clarkson, despite his popularity has to be reigned in and take responsibility for his actions. His attitude thus far suggests he still thinks he is to famous and popular for that! Why sign a petition to support that sort of alleged behaviour?
You are starting to sound like me mate! It is all a conspiracy!
I want to know why the BBC didn't report the 40k plus people protesting in Israel against their mass murdering leader who commits genocide in Palestine every week!
Oh wait let's sign a petition about fucking clarkson! BBC - britains biggest weapon of mass distraction!
Where's my renewal forum for my TV licence.... Worth every penny!
bbc turned a blind eye to Jimmy Saville, not saying the two are the same but Clarkson, despite his popularity has to be reigned in and take responsibility for his actions. His attitude thus far suggests he still thinks he is to famous and popular for that! Why sign a petition to support that sort of alleged behaviour?
You are starting to sound like me mate! It is all a conspiracy!
I want to know why the BBC didn't report the 40k plus people protesting in Israel against their mass murdering leader who commits genocide in Palestine every week!
Oh wait let's sign a petition about fucking clarkson! BBC - britains biggest weapon of mass distraction!
Where's my renewal forum for my TV licence.... Worth every penny!
my interest is more about people's reaction to "Stars" than JC himself.
So a million or so people sign a petition to get JC reinstated. without knowing if it's a stunt, or if he did whack him or was it a drunkard tirade ?
Well could this be a twist or does it prove to be a masterstroke by Clarkson. JC phoned Danny Cohen (BBC head of TV) to report the incident, not the producer Oisin Tymon !
so could be totally stage managed by Clarkson who needed a new challenged and Pay packet away from the Beeb and now can go to ITV/channel 4/5 or Sky with he new idea which we could call Fifth gear.
Every one's a winner except Oisin Tymon who will have nightmares about steaks for the rest of his life. (could always become a veggie /)
my interest is more about people's reaction to "Stars" than JC himself.
So a million or so people sign a petition to get JC reinstated. without knowing if it's a stunt, or if he did whack him or was it a drunkard tirade ?
Well could this be a twist or does it prove to be a masterstroke by Clarkson. JC phoned Danny Cohen (BBC head of TV) to report the incident, not the producer Oisin Tymon !
so could be totally stage managed by Clarkson who needed a new challenged and Pay packet away from the Beeb and now can go to ITV/channel 4/5 or Sky with he new idea which we could call Fifth gear.
Every one's a winner except Oisin Tymon who will have nightmares about steaks for the rest of his life. (could always become a veggie /)
If this is true I wonder how many of the nearly one million signatories to this petition will regret signing it? (Incidentally started by a right wing blogger whose only useful contribution to society has been running illegal raves and bankrupting himself in the City).
In essence - A 54 year old man spits out his dummy and violently assaults a colleague in a racist expletive filled rant because he couldn't have steak after a day's " Work" - How dare the BBC take action against him eh!
Incidentally started by a right wing blogger whose only useful contribution to society has been running illegal raves and bankrupting himself in the City.
So more than you then.
Interesting how anyone who is anti-Labour is instantly subject to a torrent of abuse from the Labour sheep, even though Guido's most recent scalps were two Tories and a LibDem.
Incidentally started by a right wing blogger whose only useful contribution to society has been running illegal raves and bankrupting himself in the City.
So more than you then.
Interesting how anyone who is anti-Labour is instantly subject to a torrent of abuse from the Labour sheep, even though Guido's most recent scalps were two Tories and a LibDem.
Firstly you don't know me or anything about me so that is a bit unfair and I am not a sheep.
Secondary I like Clarkson and don't think he should be sacked and I would hardly say my post was either instant or a torrent of abuse.
Thirdly I don't think that this is about politics personally - The man seems to have behaved in an inexcusable manner and clearly has issues.
Re my comment about the blogger my point is that it is he who had politicised the issue
If this is true I wonder how many of the nearly one million signatories to this petition will regret signing it? (Incidentally started by a right wing blogger whose only useful contribution to society has been running illegal raves and bankrupting himself in the City).
In essence - A 54 year old man spits out his dummy and violently assaults a colleague in a racist expletive filled rant because he couldn't have steak after a day's " Work" - How dare the BBC take action against him eh!
Agree. Not a daily mail reader but perhaps I should.
This is brilliant, pinched from some bloke on Facebook...
I see you, Jeremy Clarkson.
I see your gnarled head and your grumpy face, like an elephant's scrotum stretched across the trunk of a haunted tree. I see your thinning perm, like an irradiated Labradoodle fighting to hold on to your face. I see your enormous torso and wide shoulders. I smell the petrol and I hear the engines, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see you clunking around the Top Gear studio like a massive menopausal gibbon. I hear you weirdly emphasising and pausing after every other word, Jeremy Clarkson. The new Lamborghini has a gearbox... like a spaniard... full of hammers, does it, Jeremy Clarkson? I can see why you're so indispensable.
I hear you being a Lad, Jeremy Clarkson, as you banter with your friends by putting them all down. I see you chain smoking and gulping down steaks. I hear you laughing, a great jolly rumble, like a rhino farting across the face of the establishment. You're a maverick, aren't you, Jeremy Clarkson? You're a maverick, and it's fine, because it should be alright to offend people. Everyone's too bloody PC, aren't they, Jeremy Clarkson? All the lesbians and the ethnics and the disableds. God, and the disabled ethnic lesbians. They're just the bloody worst, aren't they, Jeremy Clarkson? They're all too bloody PC, and it's your duty as a phenomenally rich white man who's never experienced real prejudice to take a stand against it.
I see your every controversy, Jeremy Clarkson. I see you and Richard Hammond and James May tearing around the globe, while May shakes his sad hairy head and Hammond hangs on your every word like a shiny-toothed tagnut in the bum-beard of your ego. I see the long day's filming, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see that you're exhausted. I see that you're grumpy and fed up. After all, you drove a Ferrari for three hours today and they only paid you fifty thousand pounds. It's a fucking indignity, isn't it, Jeremy Clarkson? They better have cooked you a hot meal after all that gruelling work. It's just ungrateful otherwise, isn't it?
I see the assistant producer gesture to the catering tables, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the cold ham. I see the cold bastard ham, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the corner of your eye twitch, your rage building. What the hell is this? You drove a Ferrari for three hours today, and they only paid you fifty thousand pounds, and now they have the fucking nerve to serve you cold ham? Disgusting, perfectly fucking edible cold ham? Fucking hell, Jeremy Clarkson. I see that you are angry. And they're not going to like you when you're angry, are they, Jeremy Clarkson?
I see your hands balled into fists, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the veins bulging in your neck. I see Richard Hammond whimpering, bounding away on all fours to hide behind a bin. I see James May roll his eyes and pour himself another glass of red wine.
I hear your clothes stretching and popping at the seams as you roar, Jeremy Clarkson, your frame distorting and growing. I see your flesh turning blue, your eyes turning into shiny brass buttons. I see the stonewashed stitching of your new skin. I see you, Jeremy Clarkson, now twenty feet tall and bundled muscle, a murderous goliath of rage and denim. You are nothing but jeans and fury, Jeremy Clarkson, and that ham-serving prick is doomed. I bet he reads the fucking Guardian.
I see the producer scream, Jeremy Clarkson. I see his knees knocking together as he pisses all down his own legs. I see you towering above him, howling your hot wine-and-fag breath into his terrified face. I see your great blue hands pounding him into the ground. I see his bones shatter and I hear his screams cut short. I see him reduced into nothing but pulp and gristle, Jeremy Clarkson, a soggy puddle of crimson and organs that soaks into the fabric of your trembling Levi fists. I see you flinging his remains into the air, Jeremy Clarkson. I see half a mandible splash into James May's wine glass, spattering him with Cabernet Sauvignon. I see him tut, and carry on drinking anyway.
I see you pounding your chest, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see you crashing around the studio, toppling lights and flipping cars. I see the production team scattering to get out of your way. I see The Stig picking an intestine off his shoulder, his helmeted head shaking in annoyance. I hear Richard Hammond whining behind his bin.
I see you ripping the roof off a Porsche, Jeremy Clarkson, the jagged metal tearing the thick denim of your hands. I hear you howling with sheer, unadulterated rage. You're offended, aren't you, Jeremy Clarkson? And you can't offend a Lad without getting pulped into mush. That's just not how offence works.
Oh well, Jeremy Clarkson. You may have reduced a grown man you've worked with for fifteen years into a bloody puddle just because he didn't sort you out a steak, but I'm sure you'll have your job back next week, once you've calmed down and turned back into a human. After all, what's one murder at the BBC? It's only a fracas. A silly little fracas.
I'm appalled, Jeremy Clarkson, but then I remember that you also punched Piers Morgan once. And even I have to admit that you may have had a point there.
This is brilliant, pinched from some bloke on Facebook...
I see you, Jeremy Clarkson.
I see your gnarled head and your grumpy face, like an elephant's scrotum stretched across the trunk of a haunted tree. I see your thinning perm, like an irradiated Labradoodle fighting to hold on to your face. I see your enormous torso and wide shoulders. I smell the petrol and I hear the engines, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see you clunking around the Top Gear studio like a massive menopausal gibbon. I hear you weirdly emphasising and pausing after every other word, Jeremy Clarkson. The new Lamborghini has a gearbox... like a spaniard... full of hammers, does it, Jeremy Clarkson? I can see why you're so indispensable.
I hear you being a Lad, Jeremy Clarkson, as you banter with your friends by putting them all down. I see you chain smoking and gulping down steaks. I hear you laughing, a great jolly rumble, like a rhino farting across the face of the establishment. You're a maverick, aren't you, Jeremy Clarkson? You're a maverick, and it's fine, because it should be alright to offend people. Everyone's too bloody PC, aren't they, Jeremy Clarkson? All the lesbians and the ethnics and the disableds. God, and the disabled ethnic lesbians. They're just the bloody worst, aren't they, Jeremy Clarkson? They're all too bloody PC, and it's your duty as a phenomenally rich white man who's never experienced real prejudice to take a stand against it.
I see your every controversy, Jeremy Clarkson. I see you and Richard Hammond and James May tearing around the globe, while May shakes his sad hairy head and Hammond hangs on your every word like a shiny-toothed tagnut in the bum-beard of your ego. I see the long day's filming, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see that you're exhausted. I see that you're grumpy and fed up. After all, you drove a Ferrari for three hours today and they only paid you fifty thousand pounds. It's a fucking indignity, isn't it, Jeremy Clarkson? They better have cooked you a hot meal after all that gruelling work. It's just ungrateful otherwise, isn't it?
I see the assistant producer gesture to the catering tables, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the cold ham. I see the cold bastard ham, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the corner of your eye twitch, your rage building. What the hell is this? You drove a Ferrari for three hours today, and they only paid you fifty thousand pounds, and now they have the fucking nerve to serve you cold ham? Disgusting, perfectly fucking edible cold ham? Fucking hell, Jeremy Clarkson. I see that you are angry. And they're not going to like you when you're angry, are they, Jeremy Clarkson?
I see your hands balled into fists, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the veins bulging in your neck. I see Richard Hammond whimpering, bounding away on all fours to hide behind a bin. I see James May roll his eyes and pour himself another glass of red wine.
I hear your clothes stretching and popping at the seams as you roar, Jeremy Clarkson, your frame distorting and growing. I see your flesh turning blue, your eyes turning into shiny brass buttons. I see the stonewashed stitching of your new skin. I see you, Jeremy Clarkson, now twenty feet tall and bundled muscle, a murderous goliath of rage and denim. You are nothing but jeans and fury, Jeremy Clarkson, and that ham-serving prick is doomed. I bet he reads the fucking Guardian.
I see the producer scream, Jeremy Clarkson. I see his knees knocking together as he pisses all down his own legs. I see you towering above him, howling your hot wine-and-fag breath into his terrified face. I see your great blue hands pounding him into the ground. I see his bones shatter and I hear his screams cut short. I see him reduced into nothing but pulp and gristle, Jeremy Clarkson, a soggy puddle of crimson and organs that soaks into the fabric of your trembling Levi fists. I see you flinging his remains into the air, Jeremy Clarkson. I see half a mandible splash into James May's wine glass, spattering him with Cabernet Sauvignon. I see him tut, and carry on drinking anyway.
I see you pounding your chest, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see you crashing around the studio, toppling lights and flipping cars. I see the production team scattering to get out of your way. I see The Stig picking an intestine off his shoulder, his helmeted head shaking in annoyance. I hear Richard Hammond whining behind his bin.
I see you ripping the roof off a Porsche, Jeremy Clarkson, the jagged metal tearing the thick denim of your hands. I hear you howling with sheer, unadulterated rage. You're offended, aren't you, Jeremy Clarkson? And you can't offend a Lad without getting pulped into mush. That's just not how offence works.
Oh well, Jeremy Clarkson. You may have reduced a grown man you've worked with for fifteen years into a bloody puddle just because he didn't sort you out a steak, but I'm sure you'll have your job back next week, once you've calmed down and turned back into a human. After all, what's one murder at the BBC? It's only a fracas. A silly little fracas.
I'm appalled, Jeremy Clarkson, but then I remember that you also punched Piers Morgan once. And even I have to admit that you may have had a point there.
BBC News - Disappointing ratings for Top Gear replacement 'Money Bonfire' - 23 March 2015 Last updated at 06:25
BBC executives have expressed disappointment at the low-ratings their latest innovation 'Money Bonfire' has had after its second airing last night.
The pilot episode's ratings suffered amidst the furore surrounding the cancellation of Top Gear due to the ongoing Clarkson debacle, which it was hastily commissioned to replace.
"I don't understand how this lacks appeal given what other channels broadcast on a Sunday night," said Lord Bob Bobbington, Head of Programming at the BBC.
"The premise I thought was genius. We get as much of the licence-fee payers' money as possible, then we take it into the hangar that Top Gear is filmed in and set it on fire. It was great that this coincided with Comic Relief as we managed to get a load of impoverished children to come watch the fire. It was pretty incredible stuff."
"We've even scheduled to transport the bonfire to Norway for a weekend to replace the postponed Top Gear Live show."
"All in all this venture could end up costing us £100million and it'd be a shame if no one appreciated all the hard work that had gone into this."
When questioned whether the BBC executives had considered the licence fee payers' reaction to the creation of the bonfire, the ensuing laughter could be heard from Swansea.
In related news, a petition to put out the bonfire has received over a million signatures and was delivered to the BBC last week. It is apparently being used as toilet paper by the BBC News team.
Comments
I hate Russell Brand so I don't watch his programs in don't read his books and his columns
Surely it's easier on the soul to avoid things you dont like and watch the things you do
I want to know why the BBC didn't report the 40k plus people protesting in Israel against their mass murdering leader who commits genocide in Palestine every week!
Oh wait let's sign a petition about fucking clarkson! BBC - britains biggest weapon of mass distraction!
Where's my renewal forum for my TV licence.... Worth every penny!
So a million or so people sign a petition to get JC reinstated.
without knowing if it's a stunt, or if he did whack him or was it a drunkard tirade ?
Well could this be a twist or does it prove to be a masterstroke by Clarkson.
JC phoned Danny Cohen (BBC head of TV) to report the incident, not the producer
Oisin Tymon !
so could be totally stage managed by Clarkson who needed a new challenged and Pay packet away from the Beeb and now can go to ITV/channel 4/5 or Sky with he new idea
which we could call Fifth gear.
Every one's a winner except Oisin Tymon who will have nightmares about steaks for the rest of his life. (could always become a veggie /)
https://www.change.org/p/bbc-hire-alan-partridge-for-top-gear
If this is true I wonder how many of the nearly one million signatories to this petition will regret signing it? (Incidentally started by a right wing blogger whose only useful contribution to society has been running illegal raves and bankrupting himself in the City).
In essence - A 54 year old man spits out his dummy and violently assaults a colleague in a racist expletive filled rant because he couldn't have steak after a day's " Work" - How dare the BBC take action against him eh!
Interesting how anyone who is anti-Labour is instantly subject to a torrent of abuse from the Labour sheep, even though Guido's most recent scalps were two Tories and a LibDem.
Secondary I like Clarkson and don't think he should be sacked and I would hardly say my post was either instant or a torrent of abuse.
Thirdly I don't think that this is about politics personally - The man seems to have behaved in an inexcusable manner and clearly has issues.
Re my comment about the blogger my point is that it is he who had politicised the issue
I see you, Jeremy Clarkson.
I see your gnarled head and your grumpy face, like an elephant's scrotum stretched across the trunk of a haunted tree. I see your thinning perm, like an irradiated Labradoodle fighting to hold on to your face. I see your enormous torso and wide shoulders. I smell the petrol and I hear the engines, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see you clunking around the Top Gear studio like a massive menopausal gibbon. I hear you weirdly emphasising and pausing after every other word, Jeremy Clarkson. The new Lamborghini has a gearbox... like a spaniard... full of hammers, does it, Jeremy Clarkson? I can see why you're so indispensable.
I hear you being a Lad, Jeremy Clarkson, as you banter with your friends by putting them all down. I see you chain smoking and gulping down steaks. I hear you laughing, a great jolly rumble, like a rhino farting across the face of the establishment. You're a maverick, aren't you, Jeremy Clarkson? You're a maverick, and it's fine, because it should be alright to offend people. Everyone's too bloody PC, aren't they, Jeremy Clarkson? All the lesbians and the ethnics and the disableds. God, and the disabled ethnic lesbians. They're just the bloody worst, aren't they, Jeremy Clarkson? They're all too bloody PC, and it's your duty as a phenomenally rich white man who's never experienced real prejudice to take a stand against it.
I see your every controversy, Jeremy Clarkson. I see you and Richard Hammond and James May tearing around the globe, while May shakes his sad hairy head and Hammond hangs on your every word like a shiny-toothed tagnut in the bum-beard of your ego. I see the long day's filming, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see that you're exhausted. I see that you're grumpy and fed up. After all, you drove a Ferrari for three hours today and they only paid you fifty thousand pounds. It's a fucking indignity, isn't it, Jeremy Clarkson? They better have cooked you a hot meal after all that gruelling work. It's just ungrateful otherwise, isn't it?
I see the assistant producer gesture to the catering tables, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the cold ham. I see the cold bastard ham, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the corner of your eye twitch, your rage building. What the hell is this? You drove a Ferrari for three hours today, and they only paid you fifty thousand pounds, and now they have the fucking nerve to serve you cold ham? Disgusting, perfectly fucking edible cold ham? Fucking hell, Jeremy Clarkson. I see that you are angry. And they're not going to like you when you're angry, are they, Jeremy Clarkson?
I see your hands balled into fists, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the veins bulging in your neck. I see Richard Hammond whimpering, bounding away on all fours to hide behind a bin. I see James May roll his eyes and pour himself another glass of red wine.
I hear your clothes stretching and popping at the seams as you roar, Jeremy Clarkson, your frame distorting and growing. I see your flesh turning blue, your eyes turning into shiny brass buttons. I see the stonewashed stitching of your new skin. I see you, Jeremy Clarkson, now twenty feet tall and bundled muscle, a murderous goliath of rage and denim. You are nothing but jeans and fury, Jeremy Clarkson, and that ham-serving prick is doomed. I bet he reads the fucking Guardian.
I see the producer scream, Jeremy Clarkson. I see his knees knocking together as he pisses all down his own legs. I see you towering above him, howling your hot wine-and-fag breath into his terrified face. I see your great blue hands pounding him into the ground. I see his bones shatter and I hear his screams cut short. I see him reduced into nothing but pulp and gristle, Jeremy Clarkson, a soggy puddle of crimson and organs that soaks into the fabric of your trembling Levi fists. I see you flinging his remains into the air, Jeremy Clarkson. I see half a mandible splash into James May's wine glass, spattering him with Cabernet Sauvignon. I see him tut, and carry on drinking anyway.
I see you pounding your chest, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see you crashing around the studio, toppling lights and flipping cars. I see the production team scattering to get out of your way. I see The Stig picking an intestine off his shoulder, his helmeted head shaking in annoyance. I hear Richard Hammond whining behind his bin.
I see you ripping the roof off a Porsche, Jeremy Clarkson, the jagged metal tearing the thick denim of your hands. I hear you howling with sheer, unadulterated rage. You're offended, aren't you, Jeremy Clarkson? And you can't offend a Lad without getting pulped into mush. That's just not how offence works.
Oh well, Jeremy Clarkson. You may have reduced a grown man you've worked with for fifteen years into a bloody puddle just because he didn't sort you out a steak, but I'm sure you'll have your job back next week, once you've calmed down and turned back into a human. After all, what's one murder at the BBC? It's only a fracas. A silly little fracas.
I'm appalled, Jeremy Clarkson, but then I remember that you also punched Piers Morgan once. And even I have to admit that you may have had a point there.
I see you, Jeremy Clarkson. I fucking see you.
BBC executives have expressed disappointment at the low-ratings their latest innovation 'Money Bonfire' has had after its second airing last night.
The pilot episode's ratings suffered amidst the furore surrounding the cancellation of Top Gear due to the ongoing Clarkson debacle, which it was hastily commissioned to replace.
"I don't understand how this lacks appeal given what other channels broadcast on a Sunday night," said Lord Bob Bobbington, Head of Programming at the BBC.
"The premise I thought was genius. We get as much of the licence-fee payers' money as possible, then we take it into the hangar that Top Gear is filmed in and set it on fire. It was great that this coincided with Comic Relief as we managed to get a load of impoverished children to come watch the fire. It was pretty incredible stuff."
"We've even scheduled to transport the bonfire to Norway for a weekend to replace the postponed Top Gear Live show."
"All in all this venture could end up costing us £100million and it'd be a shame if no one appreciated all the hard work that had gone into this."
When questioned whether the BBC executives had considered the licence fee payers' reaction to the creation of the bonfire, the ensuing laughter could be heard from Swansea.
In related news, a petition to put out the bonfire has received over a million signatures and was delivered to the BBC last week. It is apparently being used as toilet paper by the BBC News team.