THERE were tears in the household this week. A popular member of a group parted company from the role that made him famous across the world, and there was great upset.

You’d think, knowing I have a young daughter, that I was talking about Zayn Malik leaving One Direction, but, no. I’m talking about Jeremy Clarkson, who was finally given the heave-ho by the BBC for an unseemly altercation with a producer in a North Yorkshire hotel last month.

I’d mentioned in a previous column that Clarkson’s antics had put the BBC in a bit of a pickle, and that sacking him was not a straightforward decision considering that his influence on Top Gear makes the show a success, to the tune of £50million each year to the corporation’s coffers.

The moral majority called for his head, but when there are 50 million reasons why his services should be retained, it does muddy the water somewhat.

Liking Jeremy Clarkson, and Top Gear, and deploring violence aren’t mutually exclusive. You can enjoy the show and express sadness that it has ended this way while criticising Clarkson, the big idiot, for resorting to violence.

It’s a great shame that Top Gear is over. Yes, it’s essentially Last of the Summer Wine with petrol and oil, but that isn’t such a bad thing

The hope is that Clarkson can put this behind him and start afresh elsewhere. It doesn’t have to be the BBC. We live in a multi-platform world and they can quite easily take the format to another channel, or an on-demand service like Netflix, and thrive there.

And, the producer in question will hopefully be able to resume his career, though perhaps not in the same studio as Clarkson.

BACK to One Direction, whose world was rocked by the departure of Zayn.

My daughter is a fan of the band, but not a card-carrying Directioner.

We have attempted to educate her in the way of proper music, so she’s more likely to want to listen to Gold – “the greatest hits of all time” – than the pathetic warblings of a manufactured boyband.

But, each to her own. There will be some very disappointed youngsters this week. And some adults who should really know better.

In any case, this was nothing like when Robbie Williams left Take That. My cousin was on the front page of the local paper, eyes red from crying, pictured in her bedroom surrounded by a somewhat worrying shrine to all things Take That.

They had to announce the number of the Samaritans on the news that night. I dare say my cousin had it on speed dial.

APOLOGIES for a small case of self-indulgence, but I celebrated a decade of working in newspapers last week.

I started as a trainee reporter at the Worksop Guardian, being mentored by the great, and sadly late, George Robinson.

His penchant for puns and rubbish jokes meant we clicked almost instantly, and I caught his eye with my very first assignment for the newspaper.

I was dispatched on my first morning to interview a jacket potato vendor who was retiring from his pitch alongside a nearby shopping centre.

Affectionately known as The Potato Man, presumably because nobody bothered to ask his name, his retirement would be felt across the town. This was a big deal, and they’d sent me to cover the event.

So the first intro to the first story I ever wrote in my first newspaper job? “A popular potato vendor has this week announced plans to jacket in.” I’ve never looked back.