Today we mark the martyrdom of Jeremy Clarkson.
A martyr in the truest sense of word.
A witness to the truth that useless fan boys (mostly) will defend to the death your right to abuse people of other races, and deck those who fail to get you dinner late at night - because you're a Bloke.
The relics of St Jeremy Clarkson can be seen on Gold, Dave and anywhere else the BBC can sell old editions of HIGNFY and Top Gear, as long as summer, winter, springtime and harvest endure. As long as lads race across big cities in amusing forms of transport.
And the cult of the Bloke who is entitled to do what he likes because he's a bloody Bloke? Well, that's not going to go away. Jeremy will be on Sky within six months. The Victim becomes the Victor. The bully with talent will rise again. And again. And again. Just like Jonathan Ross.
We will be selling the Holy Perm of St Jeremy in the Beaker Bazaar. It smells and it's greasy. But some people will like it. And it's not half profitable.