Clarkson gone from Too Gear!
- Thread starter FBA
- Start date
2112
Blue/white 06'
BlackICE
GT Owner
Empty Pockets
ex-GT Owner
You've gotta admit the show was entertaining. BBC will lose a bunch of $$ from advertisers, I mean what else do they have on that network that is worth writing home about ? And if they are not smart enough to recognize that and put up with Clarkson's shenanigans, then that's for sure is a dumb business move on their part and too bad they've let their ego get ion the way.
Triheart7
GT Owner
HiloDave
GT Obsessed
Cobrar
GT Owner
mal
Heritage GT Owner
Xcentric
GT Owner
Luke Warmwater
Permanent Vacation
You're kind of like the hamster only shorter and with less hair lol.
Best show on TV. They'll figure out a way to bring it back.
Sinovac
GT Owner
You obviously don't understand what really happened. There was no hot food available at the end of the day's work. No hot food. Just dreadful. One of my daughters just returned from an orphanage in Honduras where she was volunteering. Everyone down there was aghast at the lack of professionalism demonstrated by the Top Gear food service. I can picture poor Clarkson as I type this, "more porridge please.....".
Sinovac
GT Owner
AtomicGT
GT Owner
BBC couldn't let him stay on, show is dead without him. So everyone moves on. I'll watch Doc Martin insted!
2112
Blue/white 06'
From MSN news
It's almost not fair that Jeremy Clarkson, the man who grabbed an unassuming little motoring show by the scruff of the neck and turned it into a genre-defying entertainment empire through sheer passion, raw force of will and inspired choice in collaborators—it's almost not fair, really, that at least in part, he will be remembered as a lout. Almost.
Yes, he played one on TV. It was genuinely charming for a good while as he loudly voiced automotive opinions that everyone, Clarkson almost certainly included, knew were wrong. Partially because he had good foils in Richard Hammond and James May, but also because, for many many seasons, you couldn't imagine anything really sinister coming from the good-natured bloke. That's what he was, what he affably represented; the ur-bloke, the shuffling, often bemused everychap that wanted nothing more than to mess around with cars he loved far more than he understood.
Exactly when—and how—that bloke in bad loafers transformed into a controversy-courting celeb who wanted a steak dinner badly enough to slug his producer, we may never know. Probably none of our business. All we know is it's tragic, all the more so because Jeremy Clarkson is or at least was that rarest type: the person who really and truly gets it. He was able to take an all-too-quantifiable subject, something almost too easily reduced to plain facts and figures, and distill the raw magic out of it.
Related Story: UK police investigate death threat against BBC chief over Clarkson sacking
Cars, to many people, are just rows and columns of numbers, specifications and measurements and statistics, with a paint job applied. And those specs and stats are undeniably necessary, because without them we wouldn't have the car at all. But Clarkson knew that necessary is not the same thing as essential. Strip away everything that a car absolutely must do—because how much fun is the stuff you must do?—and what you had left is almost everything about a car that's fun. Everything about a car, really, that tosses boring old evaluation aside and makes a story worth watching. And for many years, with only an occasional mildewy nod at technical detail from May or a worried aside about dog-or-child carrying capacity from Hammond, the show rushed forth on a wave of sheer enthusiasm from Clarkson. They went on trips, they contrived hilarious competitions, they blustered about Wales looking for decent weather and tooled around their airport generating tire smoke. The numbers mattered, sure, okay. But when it came time to generate numbers, specifically lap times, the most telegenic numbers there are, the show got the best driver they could find—and then hid his face and never let him speak at all. Instead, Clarkson provided color commentary as they got it over with and moved on as briskly as possible.
Yes, the Koenigsegg's lap time around the track mattered, but not as much as, say, building a car into a boat and trying to sail across a river. Or playing conkers with camping trailers. Or driving horrible neglected junkers all over their green and pleasant land. All of it was presented with an eye for the genuine moment, for chemistry that had been allowed to develop organically between three different blokes who became friends as people watched. If it was scripted, it was loose and well-hidden scripting, and there was no hiding the open affection the three presenters shared. For a good while there, it was brilliant. You wouldn't want to take their advice on actually buying a car, but you'd take a trip with them anywhere, even Botswana. It was sheer joy.
Of course Clarkson never did it alone, but he'd gotten there first and hammered it into shape, and he bestrode the car-guy world like a colossus. And the once unthinkable happened; the show crossed over. For one brief shining moment, your brother-in-law was watching. Your co-workers were watching. Even women were watching. It was car-guy Camelot.
Related Link: Jeremy Clarkson's Most Controversial Moments
But there's a half-life to these things. It couldn't last. Soon the gags were being recycled, and badly. Then came the catchphrases. Clarkson was seemingly saying "Power!" or ending sentences with "…in the world" half a dozen times an episode. May and Hammond gave less of their own commentary and delivered more straight lines. Even new viewers could see the wires the gags depended upon. Worse, the show went upscale; there was more exotica, more supercars, fewer old crocks, substituting big money for everyday magic. Worst of all, the hosts started treating the rarities like an everyday part of their job; no awe, no specialness was left. The openness and honesty, the qualities that once served to show up how genuinely stunned these guys were to be doing all this, now let us see how bored they were to be whipping down the Stelvio Pass, ugh, again. What was once a puppylike exuberance seemed merely scripted; it almost certainly was more scripted. And now there were Top Gears everywhere—were they spread too thin? Was Clarkson? Did he still get it?
Because his bloke act was wearing thin indeed. Not to dwell on a lot of it, but he said some stuff he shouldn't have, edging into the borderlands of homophobia, ethnic insensitivity, and religious intolerance, apparently just to show how edgy he could be. This, combined with his Tory-leaning newspaper column, earned him a reputation as either a boor or a straight-talking no-nonsense guy from the old school, depending on your viewpoint.
Then last year, in a bit of outtake footage that was never meant to air, he could be seen mumbling his way through a nursery rhyme that contained a racial slur—eeney meany miney moe, catch a nhhmhhhmm by the toe. When it came to light, the public reaction seemed to egg him on. It was not a good look. He released a statement saying he had done "everything in his power" not to use a racial epithet. But clearly he hadn't. Everything in his power would have meant not saying anything, skipping blatantly offensive nursery rhymes altogether. Surely just shutting up was within his power. Wasn't it?
Who knows? He was on probation now. Rumor had it, quite believably, that the BBC was out to sack him anyway. His avowed politics had become increasingly hard for the network to take. To some, that made him a breath of fresh air at the stuffy old self-important Beeb. To others, it made him a borderline hypocrite, a man who claimed to strain at his oh-so-unfair bonds while the access and freedom granted him by his government job allowed him to do things he never would have accomplished elsewhere. Either way, his life was deteriorating in a welter of everyday tragedies; divorce, dwindling ratings, the death of his mother, the kind of stuff that rocks the identity of everyone, public or not. He sank so low that he went out drinking with Piers Morgan.
Even at that point, he could have had a second act, or at least a quiet sunset. The evidence, much as it points to Clarkson as lout, is that he's actually cared about and respected by those close to him professionally. The BBC gave him another chance, putting him on probation where a lesser eminence (and, frankly lesser earner) may have been shown the door. Even this week James May, who earlier this week tacitly acknowledged that he was part of Clarkson's package presentation deal, repeatedly told reporters in almost as many words that yes, the man was being an idiot but… Well, the man was also his friend; nothing for it but to press on.
All done now. Whether this is the last we'll hear of Clarkson, whether he can recapture that Top Gear bombast without BBC resources or connections, wherever he winds up, Top Gear is as over as the Beatles, as disco, as TVR sports cars. Even if you haven't watched in years, your lasting image of the show will be be confused; Ferraris whipping around an airport track, a silent man in a white helmet, three rumpled blokes laughing at how awful they are, and then, jarringly, finally, Clarkson throwing a tantrum.
Shooting ran late one night. Dinner was late. Jeremy Clarkson wanted a steak. He got a sandwich. It's every man's right to bitch now and then after a hard day, isn't it, and wasn't Clarkson a hard worker? So he lost his temper sand started yelling. Let's give him the benefit of the doubt for one last time. Everyone has a bad moment now and then. But something was different that night. We can't know what; it doesn't matter what. Clarkson had built his career on the glorious intangibles, but he was about to do something concretely, absolutely, measurably wrong, to go from bloke to lout. His producer put up with verbal abuse for half an hour; certainly unpleasant but not egregious. His producer is about to be targeted by angry fans, receive death threats, wrongly blamed (though, notably, not by Clarkson) over the course of weeks for what happened, poor bastard.
Because Jeremy Clarkson didn't stop this time. He didn't do everything in his power to avoid conflict. He's not just on this side of the acceptable any more. Maybe he doesn't get it, but that doesn't matter. You simply don't hit co-workers and avoid consequences. And when he punched Oisin Tymon in the face, finally, beyond any doubt, Jeremy Clarkson stepped across the line.
It's almost not fair that Jeremy Clarkson, the man who grabbed an unassuming little motoring show by the scruff of the neck and turned it into a genre-defying entertainment empire through sheer passion, raw force of will and inspired choice in collaborators—it's almost not fair, really, that at least in part, he will be remembered as a lout. Almost.
Yes, he played one on TV. It was genuinely charming for a good while as he loudly voiced automotive opinions that everyone, Clarkson almost certainly included, knew were wrong. Partially because he had good foils in Richard Hammond and James May, but also because, for many many seasons, you couldn't imagine anything really sinister coming from the good-natured bloke. That's what he was, what he affably represented; the ur-bloke, the shuffling, often bemused everychap that wanted nothing more than to mess around with cars he loved far more than he understood.
Exactly when—and how—that bloke in bad loafers transformed into a controversy-courting celeb who wanted a steak dinner badly enough to slug his producer, we may never know. Probably none of our business. All we know is it's tragic, all the more so because Jeremy Clarkson is or at least was that rarest type: the person who really and truly gets it. He was able to take an all-too-quantifiable subject, something almost too easily reduced to plain facts and figures, and distill the raw magic out of it.
Related Story: UK police investigate death threat against BBC chief over Clarkson sacking
Cars, to many people, are just rows and columns of numbers, specifications and measurements and statistics, with a paint job applied. And those specs and stats are undeniably necessary, because without them we wouldn't have the car at all. But Clarkson knew that necessary is not the same thing as essential. Strip away everything that a car absolutely must do—because how much fun is the stuff you must do?—and what you had left is almost everything about a car that's fun. Everything about a car, really, that tosses boring old evaluation aside and makes a story worth watching. And for many years, with only an occasional mildewy nod at technical detail from May or a worried aside about dog-or-child carrying capacity from Hammond, the show rushed forth on a wave of sheer enthusiasm from Clarkson. They went on trips, they contrived hilarious competitions, they blustered about Wales looking for decent weather and tooled around their airport generating tire smoke. The numbers mattered, sure, okay. But when it came time to generate numbers, specifically lap times, the most telegenic numbers there are, the show got the best driver they could find—and then hid his face and never let him speak at all. Instead, Clarkson provided color commentary as they got it over with and moved on as briskly as possible.
Yes, the Koenigsegg's lap time around the track mattered, but not as much as, say, building a car into a boat and trying to sail across a river. Or playing conkers with camping trailers. Or driving horrible neglected junkers all over their green and pleasant land. All of it was presented with an eye for the genuine moment, for chemistry that had been allowed to develop organically between three different blokes who became friends as people watched. If it was scripted, it was loose and well-hidden scripting, and there was no hiding the open affection the three presenters shared. For a good while there, it was brilliant. You wouldn't want to take their advice on actually buying a car, but you'd take a trip with them anywhere, even Botswana. It was sheer joy.
Of course Clarkson never did it alone, but he'd gotten there first and hammered it into shape, and he bestrode the car-guy world like a colossus. And the once unthinkable happened; the show crossed over. For one brief shining moment, your brother-in-law was watching. Your co-workers were watching. Even women were watching. It was car-guy Camelot.
Related Link: Jeremy Clarkson's Most Controversial Moments
But there's a half-life to these things. It couldn't last. Soon the gags were being recycled, and badly. Then came the catchphrases. Clarkson was seemingly saying "Power!" or ending sentences with "…in the world" half a dozen times an episode. May and Hammond gave less of their own commentary and delivered more straight lines. Even new viewers could see the wires the gags depended upon. Worse, the show went upscale; there was more exotica, more supercars, fewer old crocks, substituting big money for everyday magic. Worst of all, the hosts started treating the rarities like an everyday part of their job; no awe, no specialness was left. The openness and honesty, the qualities that once served to show up how genuinely stunned these guys were to be doing all this, now let us see how bored they were to be whipping down the Stelvio Pass, ugh, again. What was once a puppylike exuberance seemed merely scripted; it almost certainly was more scripted. And now there were Top Gears everywhere—were they spread too thin? Was Clarkson? Did he still get it?
Because his bloke act was wearing thin indeed. Not to dwell on a lot of it, but he said some stuff he shouldn't have, edging into the borderlands of homophobia, ethnic insensitivity, and religious intolerance, apparently just to show how edgy he could be. This, combined with his Tory-leaning newspaper column, earned him a reputation as either a boor or a straight-talking no-nonsense guy from the old school, depending on your viewpoint.
Then last year, in a bit of outtake footage that was never meant to air, he could be seen mumbling his way through a nursery rhyme that contained a racial slur—eeney meany miney moe, catch a nhhmhhhmm by the toe. When it came to light, the public reaction seemed to egg him on. It was not a good look. He released a statement saying he had done "everything in his power" not to use a racial epithet. But clearly he hadn't. Everything in his power would have meant not saying anything, skipping blatantly offensive nursery rhymes altogether. Surely just shutting up was within his power. Wasn't it?
Who knows? He was on probation now. Rumor had it, quite believably, that the BBC was out to sack him anyway. His avowed politics had become increasingly hard for the network to take. To some, that made him a breath of fresh air at the stuffy old self-important Beeb. To others, it made him a borderline hypocrite, a man who claimed to strain at his oh-so-unfair bonds while the access and freedom granted him by his government job allowed him to do things he never would have accomplished elsewhere. Either way, his life was deteriorating in a welter of everyday tragedies; divorce, dwindling ratings, the death of his mother, the kind of stuff that rocks the identity of everyone, public or not. He sank so low that he went out drinking with Piers Morgan.
Even at that point, he could have had a second act, or at least a quiet sunset. The evidence, much as it points to Clarkson as lout, is that he's actually cared about and respected by those close to him professionally. The BBC gave him another chance, putting him on probation where a lesser eminence (and, frankly lesser earner) may have been shown the door. Even this week James May, who earlier this week tacitly acknowledged that he was part of Clarkson's package presentation deal, repeatedly told reporters in almost as many words that yes, the man was being an idiot but… Well, the man was also his friend; nothing for it but to press on.
All done now. Whether this is the last we'll hear of Clarkson, whether he can recapture that Top Gear bombast without BBC resources or connections, wherever he winds up, Top Gear is as over as the Beatles, as disco, as TVR sports cars. Even if you haven't watched in years, your lasting image of the show will be be confused; Ferraris whipping around an airport track, a silent man in a white helmet, three rumpled blokes laughing at how awful they are, and then, jarringly, finally, Clarkson throwing a tantrum.
Shooting ran late one night. Dinner was late. Jeremy Clarkson wanted a steak. He got a sandwich. It's every man's right to bitch now and then after a hard day, isn't it, and wasn't Clarkson a hard worker? So he lost his temper sand started yelling. Let's give him the benefit of the doubt for one last time. Everyone has a bad moment now and then. But something was different that night. We can't know what; it doesn't matter what. Clarkson had built his career on the glorious intangibles, but he was about to do something concretely, absolutely, measurably wrong, to go from bloke to lout. His producer put up with verbal abuse for half an hour; certainly unpleasant but not egregious. His producer is about to be targeted by angry fans, receive death threats, wrongly blamed (though, notably, not by Clarkson) over the course of weeks for what happened, poor bastard.
Because Jeremy Clarkson didn't stop this time. He didn't do everything in his power to avoid conflict. He's not just on this side of the acceptable any more. Maybe he doesn't get it, but that doesn't matter. You simply don't hit co-workers and avoid consequences. And when he punched Oisin Tymon in the face, finally, beyond any doubt, Jeremy Clarkson stepped across the line.