I was born in the year 1964, which means I am exactly on the cusp between boomer and generation X. This is more than a fascinating fact about me – although it is of course also that. It is a disability. Yet incredibly, at no stage in my entire BBC career did anyone try to make the world accessible for this disability, neither by mandating every single person I might ever work with – or maybe even just humorously touch – to undergo unconscious Greggism training, nor by helping me with off-ramps for my jokes. I was sometimes left literally stranded halfway down a gag about my knob and no one came to my aid. Where was the compassion?
Having said that, perhaps it still exists in small pockets. I am massively grateful to the close pals whose briefing of the Times resulted in yesterday’s headline: “Gregg Wallace’s autism means he can’t wear underwear, say friends”. I am now keen to encourage further friends to come forward and cite the second medical condition which means that despite knowing that my autism prevents me from wearing underwear, I still have to take my trousers off in front of runners. This is clinical.
Effectively, then, the BBC placed me in the most dangerous possible environment – a series of lucrative jobs in primetime. Would you leave a child in a room full of sharp knives? No. Of course you wouldn’t. Yet apparently it was fine to leave an extremely well-remunerated television presenter in a room full of crew, general dogsbodies and the ones who get your lunch and try not to look at the sock on your cock. Runners, maybe? Listen, I’m an authentic greengrocer. I don’t see rank.
Ironically, my dismissal letter from BBC head of compliance, Claire Powell (what’s the betting – middle-aged?), accidentally admits the scale of the corporation’s evil and inhumanity. In the course of banning me from working at the BBC, Claire writes – and I quote – “I have also taken into account whether your behaviour could be improved with training and/or coaching. I do not have the confidence that you can change what seems to be learned behaviour for you to make what you perceive to be jokes in the working environment, without understanding the boundaries of what is appropriate.” Well, there it is in black and white. I can’t be improved – I have an untreatable condition. The BBC is sacking someone for having an untreatable condition. That, my friends, is against every law of this once great land. See you in court, sweet cheeks.
As I said in my Instagram post, fine, maybe I am guilty of using inappropriate language for the strictly limited time period between 2005 and 2018. Yet I am now being caricatured as unpleasant or exhausting to work with. By who? Some silly cows. The end. It’s the numbers I find absurd. Think of how many people I’ve worked with over the years – or, let’s face it – how many people have been junior to me over the years. And only 13 of them alleged inappropriate behaviour. And then another 50 once the investigation was announced. This is a rounding error.
Ask any one of my four wives and they’d tell you that I am someone you have to look after, all the time. As either my second or third wife maybe used to say to me: “Gregg, you literally can’t do anything for yourself.” And I thought yes: you are exactly right. You have understood my struggle. Although, ultimately, it didn’t work out because she wasn’t up to dealing with my needs. Anyway, I’ve got another one now.
I freely admit I am my own second worst enemy. My first worst is Kirsty Wark. But what this means is that the BBC failed to protect me from both my first and second worst enemies. Again: this is literally illegal.
So what now? What now for Gregg Wallace the brand – and indeed for Gregg Wallace the man? The answer is clear. It is time, you will be relieved to hear, for me to pivot. And in a momentous decision for both me and the byways of England, I have decided to do what so many boomers in books and movies have done before me. I have decided to set out on a walk. Why? Because I was made televisually homeless through no fault of my own. Because I have an untreatable condition.
Thus my path will be a journey both physical and mental. But rest assured, as anyone who has ever been lucky enough to be served a dish by me will know, it will not be oversalted. Instead it will be a journey into the Britain I know is out there. The real Britain. Not the Britain of the mardy makeup girl – while you’re down there, face-ache! – nor the Britain of the Claires and the Kirstys and all the other ones, which is as constricting as a pair of underpants worn in a public setting. But the authentic Britain, all those wonderful people who, purely because I was in it, made MasterChef roughly the 17th most popular programme on television.
And with that, I’m heading for the open road. Perhaps you might meet me out there, striding shirtless (and perhaps pantsless) down a bridleway, both of us able to appreciate those simple, natural pleasures – the wind on your face, the hand on your arse. And the message of my journey will be one of hope – hope for all those out there looking for a sign that personal growth is just for chicks and runners. I will not simply go quietly. I am Gregg Wallace. I exist. Get over it.
Marina Hyde is a Guardian columnist
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