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Daily Mail
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Daily Mail
EXCLUSIVE Inside the battle to save Strictly: Revolting slur that's caused 'terrible fear' over contestants' behaviour exposed by KATIE HIND - as insiders leak list of who bosses are desperate to sign up
Some truly frantic meetings are taking place right now at Broadcasting House, the BBC 's famous London headquarters near Regent Street. With just weeks to go to complete the celebrity line-up for this year's Strictly Come Dancing, the show's bosses are in agonies as they try to work out who to hire.
Spectator
26-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Spectator
There will never be another Alan Yentob
In the excellent BBC comedy series W1A, which poked a harsher degree of fun at its makers than many would have believed credible, there is one especially amusing throwaway gag. The hapless Ian Fletcher (Hugh Bonneville) is taken on a tour of Broadcasting House, and briefly veers into a meeting room, where, to his surprise, he sees Salman Rushdie and Alan Yentob engaged in a game of arm wrestling. Both men look up at him in pained surprise, and a baffled Fletcher makes his excuses and leaves. I was reminded of this moment yesterday when the news broke of Yentob's death, at the age of 78. My initial response was to think predominantly of the broadcaster's significant, even overwhelming self-regard and preening. There have been few figures in public life more associated with both name-dropping ( 'Salman' was probably the least of it) and putting themselves front and centre when it came to the programmes that he was responsible for. This reached a nadir in 2007 with the so-called 'Noddygate' scandal, in which shots of Yentob nodding gravely and looking serious were cut and pasted into Imagine interviews that he did not conduct.
Yahoo
25-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
How Alan Yentob changed the BBC for the better (and worse)
With the death of Alan Yentob, the BBC's erstwhile creative director and broadcasting titan, the corporation has lost the man who has done more than virtually anyone else in the post-war era to define it in the public imagination, for good and for ill alike. For nearly six decades, Yentob was a seismic figure within and without the confines of Broadcasting House, a man whose vision reshaped its cultural output. He was that rare behind-the-scenes impresario who was also a household name, and his willingness to put himself on camera suggested that he saw himself as being as much a star as the figures he interviewed throughout his career, from Orson Welles to David Bowie. Yentob's time with the BBC was a career of dizzying highs and lows, of glittering brilliance tainted by hubris. In addition to the art documentary series Arena and Imagine, he was directly responsible for many of the corporation's most iconic and memorable programmes during his tenure as BBC controller, firstly of BBC Two from 1987 to 1993 and then BBC One from 1993 and 1996. In retrospect, the high watermark of his career was as an executive, rather than as a presenter. During this period, he commissioned programmes such as Pride and Prejudice (the series which made Colin Firth a heartthrob), Middlemarch, The Office and Absolutely Fabulous (the latter of which paid him appropriately backhanded homage by calling the character of a Moroccan houseboy 'Yentob'). He furthered the reach of Have I Got News For You, which began in 1990 but only really achieved critical mass under Yentob's enthusiastic patronage. That he would occasionally become one of its satirical targets was merely a price that he willingly paid to see it become the BBC's most popular and longest-running televised comedy panel show. Yet the difficulty with Yentob was that he was vain and inclined to believe that he was a genius in his own right rather than a man who was at his best when allowing other, more talented individuals to thrive. The difficulties really began in 2004 when he was given the all-encompassing post of 'BBC creative director', which allowed him to do more or less as he wished. Anyone watching him closely might have expected that a fall was coming, and it duly did. The only surprise in retrospect is that it took over a decade to arrive. He had joined the BBC in 1968 as a trainee, the only non-Oxbridge graduate in his cohort, and quickly ascended the corporation's ranks, a testament to his charisma and relentless drive. By the time he became controller of BBC Two in 1987, he had already established himself as the most influential figure in British television, and many of the shows that he commissioned there are justly regarded as classics. (Without him, for instance, it's fair to say there would be no Wallace and Gromit.) These years were nothing short of a cultural renaissance for the channel; at a time when many might have asked what BBC Two stood for, he transformed it into a crucible of televisual innovation, which more than held its own against its rival Channel 4. Some, not least Yentob himself, might have whispered that he was the most significant figure at the corporation since the days of Sir John Reith. When his flagship arts show Arena was at its peak, such self-congratulation did not seem wholly absurd. The show managed to look at both high and low culture with the same blend of seriousness and commitment, suggesting that punk rock and Orson Welles alike were worthy of intellectual assessment. This not only influenced broadsheet newspapers' cultural supplements but also led to Yentob himself fronting Imagine, a show that was dogged by controversy in 2007 when it was revealed that other journalists had conducted some of the interviews, with shots of Yentob frowning and looking quizzical dropped in. This was known as 'Noddygate', on account of the number of shots of the presenter nodding and looking sage. While a staff investigation reportedly found that none of that footage had been broadcast, this made Yentob a marked man in the estimation of junior colleagues, who were all too aware that other, less venerable figures had lost their jobs for rather less. All the same, Yentob was a serious contender for the role of director-general. He later said, with a typical combination of apparent self-deprecation and considerable self-regard that, 'I'm really glad I didn't get it. I'd probably have been sacked. I think I could have run the BBC, but obviously I would have run it in my way.' Despite his self-consciously cerebral mien, there was also something of the overgrown child about Yentob, a sense that he was giddily enjoying his power and influence. It was little surprise, with this in mind, that he launched CBBC and CBeebies, cementing the BBC's role as a nurturer of young minds. It was ironic, then, that his legacy was irrevocably marred by his involvement with Kids Company, the charity that he served as chairman for and which collapsed ignominiously in 2015 due to accusations of financial mismanagement. Yentob was accused of trying to influence the BBC's coverage of the scandal. His meddling was described by MPs as 'unwise at best, deliberately intimidating at worst,' and he resigned from his much-prized creative director role in December 2015. (An internal BBC inquiry concluded that he did not affect its reporting.) Yentob's penchant for self-promotion and name-dropping—Clive James once quipped he had heard the executive was 'in the Red Sea, in conversation with the Dalai Lama'— allowed him to become a whipping boy for all those who disliked the modern BBC. He was seen as overpaid (in 2013, it was revealed his annual salary was more than £330,000), out of touch and, in the inimitable words of the Daily Mail, a 'profligate luvvie'. Yet it is hard to view his ultimate legacy as purely a tainted one. Yentob made some of the most memorable and successful television of the last few decades. It is this, rather than his many failings and excessive self-confidence, that should ultimately stand as his lasting memorial. 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The Independent
24-05-2025
- Entertainment
- The Independent
BBC bosses can't wait to be rid of Lineker – they'll live to regret it
This Sunday, when Gary Lineker presents Match of the Day for the final time, it will be a moment of mixed emotions for staff at the BBC. For those working in close proximity to him, it will be an occasion framed by sadness. This, after all, is not only the finest front-of-camera talent of his generation, but he is also someone universally admired by his colleagues; someone entirely lacking in the haughty self-importance that often accompanies broadcasting prominence. Yet at the same time, there is no doubt that any celebration of his 26 years at the helm of Britain's most watched football show will be in danger of being drowned out by the sighs of relief wafting out of the executive offices at Broadcasting House. Because, invariably excellent as he may be, Lineker has simply become too difficult for those in charge of the corporation to handle. They cannot wait to be rid of their turbulent presenter. Initially, the plan was to take him off Match of the Day duties, but retain his services for FA Cup and international matches until after next summer's World Cup. But now, following his latest round of social media postings about Gaza, he is to go immediately after this Sunday's broadcast. And there is no question, having him off the payroll has freed his employers of their biggest source of controversy. Whether it be his salary, his politics or just his decision once to present the show in his boxers, Lineker has long since become a rod with which the corporation's critics could use to beat the bosses about the head. Now he is finally off the payroll, their lives are about to get much easier. Indeed, when Lineker suggested to Amol Rajan in their interview aired before his latest social media dispatches that executives at the corporation had been anxious to see him off the premises, he wasn't being paranoid. They really were out to get him. Late last year, when it was announced that, after contractual negotiations had concluded, he was leaving Match of the Day, public statements insisted that both parties had agreed not to resign a contract to continue. In football vernacular, it was a mutual decision. This, however, was not the case. Lineker had become aware that senior figures at the corporation, including the freshly recruited head of sport, Alex Kay-Jelski, would not be entirely unhappy to see him go. When they were negotiating over what happened after his contract came to an end, he got the feeling they wanted to see the back of him. The truth is, as decisions go, this was about as mutual as Donald Trump's imposition of tariffs on some rocky outcrop in the south Atlantic. Because Lineker was more than keen to stay. He loved presenting the weekly football highlights show. He took great pleasure in travelling to Salford every Saturday to preside over its preparation and broadcast, ensuring it – and he – remained at the centre of the sporting conversation. He may be in his sixties, yet he wanted more. His ambition was by no means sated. But, comfortable in his own skin and even more comfortable in his own bank account, he did not make a fuss. He did not argue with the corporate urge to present him with a termination notice. As much as anything, he did not want to look a curmudgeon, particularly as a compromise was reached to enable him to front live coverage of FA Cup and World Cup games for another year. He loves the BBC, loves Match of the Day, and he had no desire to be combative about it. He was at a stage in his life when he could step aside, let the next generation through. But of this there can be no doubt: had the BBC hierarchy made it clear they wanted him to stay, he would have signed a new contract in a heartbeat. His disappointment was made manifest in his interview this week with The Telegraph, in which he demonstrated how little respect he had for Kay-Jelski's judgment. Besides, those who enjoy their football on the telly would have been delighted to see him retained. He is, after all, not simply the sharpest presenter of sport in the country, but among the finest in any field. Relaxed, funny, adept at bringing the best out of his studio pundits, he is a model for any aspiring young wannabe precisely how it is done. And it is not easy. Indeed the master of the presentational arts Des Lynam, has long since reckoned Lineker is more than his equal. Because not only does he share Lynam's wit, warmth and twinkle, he marries that to the added authority of having scored 48 times for his country. That is the rarest of combinations. Though there is one thing he does that Lynam never did: make his politics very public. His many critics insist he has used his public prominence to promote views in a manner which entirely goes against the corporation's reputation for impartiality. Stay in your lane, they have long shouted as he makes his liberal views known on social media. When he railed against government policy on asylum seekers, the outcry – in several cases from those who self-define as stalwarts of free speech – was loud and long. In panic mode, the BBC suspended him from duty. Then immediately climbed down when his colleagues demonstrated solidarity by withdrawing their labour. Lineker told Rajan that, were he gifted the possibility of reliving things, he wouldn't issue his tweet again. Not because he felt he was wrong. Far from it. But he worried that the brouhaha stirred up by it might bring damage to the show. Which is why he had agreed with the BBC bosses after that row, it was best not to provide further ammunition to those whose principal motivation is to undermine the corporation and its values. Yet last week he was at it again. He reshared a social media post about Gaza. It was, he said, impossible for those with a conscience to stay silent about the issue. The trouble was, the post he endorsed was illustrated with anti-Semitic imagery. He may have taken it down when the connection was pointed out, but the fury was not so easily contained. And this time, his bosses decided enough was enough. So it is that Sunday will be his final contribution to the Beeb. Not that we need worry too much on his behalf about losing the gig. His 'The Rest Is…' franchise is one of the most successful brands in podcasting; the broadcasting equivalent of a machine printing cash in the basement of his house in Barnes. Besides, he won't be short of job offers. You imagine every American broadcasting network (with the possible exception of Fox News) would pay top dollar to have him at the helm for their output of next summer's World Cup. Though there is one thing we can be sure of. From now on, Kelly Cates, Gabby Logan and Mark Chapman, the trio of talents brought in to replace him, will be keeping their political opinions under wraps. Which means for the big cheeses in charge of the Beeb's sport division, life is about to get a lot easier. Now, freed of their biggest loose cannon, they can get on with doing what they do best: losing out in the battle for broadcasting rights to big events. But while they quietly cheer Lineker's departure, the rest of us will notice a sizable void opening up in our television-watching lives. The kind of hole that appears when you are deprived of the best.
Telegraph
19-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
Gary Lineker has no one to blame but himself for exiting BBC in disgrace
For Gary Lineker, a broadcast career that should have culminated in the supreme cachet of a World Cup final reaches its full stop with, of all things, a rat emoji. If a week is a long time in politics, it is an aeon in the confounding life of Britain's highest-profile television presenter, a man who dared consider himself bulletproof but who has been brought down in a few torrid days by hubris. Across 26 years fronting the BBC's football coverage, he carved a niche as master of the autocue, always producing some knowingly creaky pun to describe England's self-sabotage at major tournaments. In the end, though, the one exit he failed to script was his own. His mistake was in believing that he could survive any scandal, weather any storm, in the apparent certainty that his BBC employers needed him more than he needed them. But the moment Lineker shared that fateful Instagram post last week about the Israel-Hamas war, with the symbol of a rat denoting one of the oldest anti-Semitic tropes in the book, the balance of power shifted. This time, there was no parade of celebrity pundits offering solidarity, no selfie against an inscription on the Broadcasting House wall of George Orwell's message that 'if liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.' Finally, the BBC, weary of their superstar straying into areas far beyond his brief, decided they had heard enough. It is staggering, even by the standards of a Lineker news cycle, how quickly it has come to this. When I interviewed him in London just 10 days ago, he was still dreaming of signing off with an England triumph in next summer's World Cup final in New Jersey. Asked if he might launch a diatribe against President Trump, in the same vein as his 2022, monologue decrying Qatar's human rights abuses, he smiled: 'Yes – if they let me in.' He grumbled that budgetary constraints might mean the BBC would only dispatch to the United States for the knockout stages. Now they will not be sending him at all, instead directing him to the door without any of the star-spangled fanfare he had planned. For somebody so scrupulous about curating his image, it is devastating, a sorrowful conclusion to more than a quarter of the century as the country's face of sport. But the brutal reality is that he should have faced the consequences of his actions much sooner. Nobody else at the corporation would have survived the maelstrom he unleashed in March 2023, when he made a mockery of the BBC's impartiality rules by comparing Suella Braverman's small boats crackdown to the 'language of 1930s Germany'. The dimensions of that crisis were extraordinary: director-general Tim Davie was forced into crisis meetings in Washington, while a Lineker-less Match of the Day was stripped back to the level of a state broadcast from North Korea. Still he was spared, showing not an ounce of contrition. On the contrary, he felt vindicated. When we sat down a few weeks later, he told me how, at the height of the turmoil, with camera crews chasing him as he walked the dog, he popped into his local branch of Marks & Spencer in Barnes and received a standing ovation. I did not quite have the heart to suggest that surely these customers would have been standing up regardless. The comment vividly revealed the gap between Lineker's self-regard and the public perception of him beyond his liberal enclave in south-west London. Where Lineker viewed himself as the conscience of the nation, even Downing Street branded his political posturing 'unacceptable'. Before he fell down the rabbit hole of social media, Lineker enjoyed a golden run as a broadcaster. Despite having learnt at the feet of Des Lynam, he was stilted when he first stepped into the Match of the Day chair in 1999. 'Eh, tell you what, football's back,' he announced, on his debut appearance, in a nod to his deadpan character. 'Any good? Have I got the job?' But he was conscientious, hiring a voice coach to help bring some light and shade to his delivery. Not even his fiercest detractors could deny he improved immeasurably, becoming such a comforting presence on British screens that he was handed one of the most prized assignments of all, as the BBC's lead primetime presenter at the London 2012 Olympics. Had he only kept to his responsibilities as a sports anchor, Lineker's reputation today would be very different. If all anyone critiqued was his presenting style, he could have been assured of that seven-figure salary for years to come. Except he craved more, increasingly seeking a relevance outside his field of expertise. The manner of his downfall, where he calculated that he could leap over any obstacle but ended up falling flat on his face, is destined to be a textbook study in the perils of vaulting ambition. Who needs Macbeth, when you can just study the Lineker story? It would be a mistake to see the rat scandal as an isolated example of his overreach. Lineker has been flying dangerously close to the sun on Gaza ever since the Hamas atrocities of October 7, 2023. That day, despite many calls for him to condemn the worst single-day massacre of Jews since the Holocaust, his only observation on Twitter was to note that Tottenham Hotspur were top of the league. His amplifying of pro-Palestinian perspectives has been incessant, sometimes linking to highly inflammatory propaganda. In January last year, he re-posted a message on X by the Palestinian Campaign for the Academic and Cultural Boycott of Israel, calling for Israel to be banned from international football. Why did the BBC not act then? After all, he could hardly hide behind the usual defence that his takes on politics were distinct from his day job. This was a profoundly provocative statement with direct relevance to the sport he covered. Lineker has seemed compelled, over the past 17 months, to keep posting heedlessly about Gaza even when the risks to the BBC's foundational principle of neutrality were self-evident. There is no other word for this but arrogance. While his feelings about the Palestinians's plight are clearly sincere, Lineker inhabits a curious realm where he resists any concerted challenge to his pre-existing world view. As the polemicist Christopher Hitchens once told an American interviewer – 'you give me the awful impression that you've never read any argument against your position, ever' – the same charge could be levelled at Lineker. He appears not to recognise that the algorithms of Instagram, the platform for much of his Gaza agitation and now the trigger for his demise, are designed to keep showing him only what he wants to see. Ultimately, Lineker was so ubiquitous that his attitudes became indivisible from those of the BBC. The trouble was that these views could be full of logical inconsistencies. One of the most baffling elements of the last interview I conducted with him was how he regarded the conflict in Gaza as simple – 'people say it's a complex issue, but I don't think it is' – but the controversy of men in women's sport as impossibly complicated, claiming it was 'too nuanced' for him to discuss on his podcast, The Rest Is Football. Lineker will now have more time than ever to devote to what he calls his 'podcast empire'. It is likely to make a fortune that dwarfs even what has earned at the BBC. But the BBC was the shop window for everything else, the platform for him to gather ratings of which podcasts could only dream. And now, after his Match of the Day farewell on Sunday, it will no longer be his to use. To think, it was only on May 9 that he was basking in the acclaim of the industry, accepting an award for outstanding achievement. Mark Chapman, one of his Match of the Day successors next season, alongside Kelly Cates and Gabby Logan, said on presenting him with the trophy: 'He is so good at his job, it is going to take three people to replace him. What sets this man apart is not just his footballing excellence or his broadcasting prowess but also his unwavering authenticity. He has used his platform to advocate for important causes. That has done two things. One: absolutely drop him in the s---, and the rest of us sometimes. Two: Show that leadership in football goes far beyond the pitch.' The first of Chapman's conclusions was more accurate. Lineker's advocacy offers less a template for righteous crusades than an object lesson in why it is better to present rather than preach. Viewers wanted to hear his football stories, not the gospel according to Gary. As he clasped his award that afternoon, he looked quizzically at his audience and reflected: 'This is almost like my death.' Little could he have foretold how grimly prophetic those words would be.
