Apologies if this has already been mentioned: https://uk.yahoo.com/news/clarkson-told-colleague-lose-job-220953643.html Top Gear presenter Jeremy Clarkson is facing new allegations over the "fracas" at a Yorkshire Dales hotel that led to his suspension by the BBC on Monday. Four members of the same family who overheard the row say Clarkson told a colleague he would have him fired because there was no hot food at the end of a day's filming. The Ward family from Leeds told Sky News that Clarkson ranted for up to half-an-hour at the Simonstone Hotel near Hawes and say they were shocked at his language and the way he treated his colleague. They also claimed he criticised the BBC, saying it was "getting worse". Sue Ward, 54, a medical receptionist, described Clarkson's behaviour towards the unnamed employee as shocking. "He said he hadn't done his job properly, it was ridiculous that there was nothing to eat, obviously there was lots of expletives in between all this, and that he would be losing his job, he would see to it that he would lose his job," she said. "Even someone who's really inept at their job should be told properly, in a proper manner," she said "But the fact that it was in a public place, I didn't want to listen to that language." Sue's brother in law Bob Ward, 60, said Clarkson arrived with his co-presenters by helicopter at around 9.30pm and refused to have his picture taken. "I said 'Any chance of a selfie Jeremy?' and he said 'No, not with the day I've had today'."
The producer hit by Jeremy Clarkson hit in a fit of rage over a platter of cold food allegedly needed treatment in A&E following the attack. The Mirror reports that Clarkson called Oisin Tymon a ‘lazy Irish c***’ moments before he hit him and split his lip. The punch was so forceful Tymon was allegedly left covered in blood and required a trip to hospital for treatment. He is said to have suffered dizziness following the event. The producer was treated at the Friarage Hospital in Northallerton and is said to have an employment lawyer helping him with his case as the matter is taken further. More details have emerged on the events leading up to Clarkson punching Oisin. The Daily Mirror reports that he and the other Top Gear producers arrived two hours late to the hotel after they held up the helicopter that was due to fly them there. The Ward family overheard the expletive-filled rant. Bob Ward said: ‘He was saying: ‘This is not f****** good enough. This is typical of the f****** BBC. You’re going to lose your job over this, I’ll make sure of it’. He was also heard saying ‘You’ll be on the dole tomorrow. I’m going to make sure you will not have a job.’ James May and Richard Hammond sat with Jeremy in an attempt to calm him down. Clarkson will face a disciplinary hearing next week Oisin had apparently waited up for the presenters rather than going on to bed, and Clarkson was said to be ‘agitated’ when he arrived. Other hotel guests heard the commotion. Hotel guest Bob Ward, 60, had requested a picture with Clarkson. but the presenter replied: ‘No, not after the day I’ve had’. Hungry Clarkson was eventually cooked a steak by the hotel manager.
Something strange going on with the Beeb inquiry...they're not interviewing either punters (such as the Wards) or even any staff....
Why should they. it's an internal investigation, there will be enough witnesses among the staff & production crew. If it were a criminal investigation the police would have a right to interview non employees but the BBC don't
He's been in the news for other reasons this week. http://m.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-gloucestershire-31829277
This was the best thing I've seen on Clarksongate, on a Facebook page called "I See You", where self-important celebrity ****s are ridiculed: 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 ****ing 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 ****ing nerve to serve you cold ham? Disgusting, perfectly ****ing edible cold ham? ****ing 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 ****ing 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 ale-and-*** 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 ****ing see you.
I think that is a slightly weird and rather sad, not to mention indulgent, load of ****e. Someone had to plan that and then take time to write it. Odd.
You don't think that the writer has actually got even a teeny-weeny point? Perhaps about being such a ****ing prima-donna and kicking off because he didn't get a his steak, and smacking a bloke about 6" shorter than himself? Or especially when he makes a very astute reference to the fact that Clarkson often rages against people who suffer prejudice, while he never has? Now THAT'S ****ing odd.
