Gregg Wallace is the one in the wrong – not BBC bosses, his accusers or ‘snowflakes'

Scottish Sun

a day ago

I WROTE this about Gregg Wallace when his career went phut over inappropriate behaviour allegations – and I'll write it again.
The one thing he needs to get straight in his addled head is that he's the one in the wrong.
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Gregg Wallace needs to get it straight in his head - he's the one in the wrong
Credit: PA
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He might not have meant any harm, but he caused plenty.
Credit: BBC
Not his bosses at the BBC. Not a world he sees as snowflakes. And most definitely not the women whose complaints put him in a corner.
He did it all to himself, with words and actions he wrongly thought were just a bit of fun.
Yet even now that more than half the 83 allegations made against him have been upheld by an independent inquiry, he's STILL at it, claiming to have been a victim of 'trial by media, rumour and clickbait'. No, Gregg, no. You're not any kind of victim.
You're the culprit – as in, if you hadn't said and done the things you did, none of this would have happened.
As for the get-out clause that he's been diagnosed with autism late in life?
The suggestion seems to be that had he understood his own mind better years ago, he might have behaved differently – there's an element of a big boy doing it and running away in there.
And in any case, he then blurts the line that, 'I was the headline this time, but I won't be the last', which suggests that it's now all the big bad world's fault.
Bottom line?
He might not have meant any harm, but he caused plenty.
Which is why it's time for him to shut that great big pizza oven of a gob and take his dumps.
Masterchef meltdown as BBC asked John Torode to RESIGN over 'racist remark' before Gregg Wallace sacking
Things to do in Denver when you have no clean pants
AS you fly over the handlebars of a speeding bike, all your brain should be thinking about is how to land without smashing too many bones.
In the split second it happened to me on a Colorado forest trail last Wednesday, though, all mine could scream was: 'DON'T RIP THOSE JEANS!!'
Because they were the only ones I had. Aer Lingus had made damn sure of that.
On the Monday, I'd arrived in Denver from Glasgow en route to the ski town of Aspen, only to find my luggage hadn't made it past the stopover point of Dublin.
As I write this, a very nice man called David has just phoned to say it should finally be on a plane to Glasgow tonight. But I still fear it might well be in Timbuktu by the time we go to press.
Why so cynical? Well, it starts with the reply from the Irish national airline's baggage rep in Denver when I asked when they might get the wee fella to me, words I still hear in my sleep:
'Once we receive any further updates, you will be notified.'
So began a saga that may well end up as a movie called Things To Do In Denver When You Have No Clean Pants.
Call centre jockey
Aer Lingus then repeated that promise of updates 27 times in seven days but only followed through on it once; at 11.58am on Saturday — two minutes before I started heading home, still wearing the clothes I'd arrived in — when a call centre jockey rang to proudly proclaim:
'Hi, Mr William — your bag is now on Aer Lingus flight 59 to Denver.'
It was one of those moments when you want to scream obscenities that would have Frankie Boyle tutting.
But then your mammy's teachings kick in, so you put on your politest voice and reply: 'But I phoned yesterday, explained I'd be leaving Denver today and pleaded for the bag to go to my home address in Glasgow.'
'So you DON'T want it to go to Denver, Mr William?'
'Funnily enough, I do not.'
'Well, once we receive any further updates, you will be notified . . . '
This was always how it was going to end. All week, the joke with my colleagues, Gemma and Kate — both, ironically, journalists from Ireland — had been that a wee black roll-along duffle would arrive at the hotel two minutes after we left the parking lot.
After a daily regime of shuffling to the hotel laundry in a bathrobe to wash the clothes I stood in — and constant apologies to our hosts for turning up like a tramp to everything from a Lyle Lovett gig and a symphony orchestra recital to dinner at the highest of high-end restaurants — it felt like this was how it HAD to end.
And the girls had said: 'Surely no one can be that incompetent!'
Well, far be it from me to suggest Aer Lingus are an incompetent organisation, because they plainly are not.
All I'll say is that the competence of all but two of the employees dealing with my situation over the past week oscillated between defensiveness, obstructiveness, selective deafness and temporary amnesia.
Whether via phone or message, there was never a, 'Hang on and I'll see what I can do'.
No offer of compensation. So little initiative or empathy you began to wonder if maybe you weren't dealing with humans at all, but bots. I give you Ricky. When I complained that he'd answered five successive questions by saying that — all together now — 'Once we receive any further updates, you will be notified', his response was that once they received any further updates, I'd be notified.
Then there was Eva, who announced on Friday that the bag was going to Denver.
And who, when I almost wept that its destination should, in fact, be Glasgow, replied she was confirming my request for it to go to . . . Denver.
The first exception to this rule of dumb is Geraldine, who led the cabin crew back to Dublin and could not have been more apologetic on behalf of her entire nation.
The second is a smiley young woman called Melissa, who handles Aer Lingus customer services at Denver Airport and who, when I found her on Saturday afternoon and began recounting the saga, stopped me and said: 'Are you Mr Leckie? We've been talking about you all week . . . '
Melissa then physically went to the plane when it landed from Dublin, found my bag, got them to check it back onboard and met me at the gate with a photo of the wee fella wearing a bright orange tag reading: TRANSFER TO GLASGOW, YOU EEJITS!
Finally, I could relax. Back on home soil 12 hours later, I even stood at the mouth of the carousel ready to photograph our joyous reunion.
Sadly, dear reader, I instead have to finish by telling you this.
I'd gone over the handlebars last Wednesday because an idiot American dad showed off to his kids by performing a back-wheel skid that forced me to swerve and tumble down a grass bank.
Yet even the pain of landing smack on my right shoulder dulls when compared to that of standing in Glasgow baggage reclaim like a spare one at a wedding, before being told my bag had been taken off in Dublin.
If you didn't laugh, you'd cry.
So here goes.
Ha fecking ha . . .