The problem with impartiality: What the Gary Lineker fallout says about working for the BBC
In the UK, the BBC isn’t just a broadcaster - it’s a constant. It’s where Tracy Beaker lived, where Fiona Bruce still lives, and where most of us grew up seeing the world through that very specific BBC filter. If you’re my age (born in the early 90s) it was just what television was. Before Netflix, before social media, before everyone had a platform, the BBC was the default.
But that level of cultural presence creates a strange kind of responsibility. The BBC isn’t just a media brand. It’s an institution. People see it as a mirror, or at least, they expect it to reflect them. And the second it doesn’t, the complaints start rolling in.
The first gay kiss on a British soap aired on the BBC back in 1989, and it caused complete uproar. Middle-aged audiences were genuinely horrified. People wrote letters. Entire headlines were dedicated to it. It’s funny looking back - the idea that a quick kiss between two men could cause such widespread panic feels ridiculous now.
I wasn’t born yet when that first one aired, but even growing up in the 90s, I remember the same reaction continuing. Any sign of same-sex intimacy on TV, even portrayed gently or realistically would still cause chaos. And yet, the BBC kept doing it. They aired it knowing full well it would offend a certain type of viewer, and they did it anyway. That was, in its own quiet way, a political act. A reminder that impartiality doesn’t mean avoiding difficult storylines, sometimes it means including them, and being willing to take the hit.
Which brings us to Gary Lineker - and the increasingly impossible job of trying to be “impartial” in 2025.
Public funding changes everything
The BBC isn’t ad-funded or privately owned. It’s paid for by the licence fee, something you’re legally required to pay if you watch live television or use iPlayer. That means presenters, output, and yes, their salaries, are publicly funded.
And when the public pays, the public expects neutrality. Or at the very least, subtlety.
That’s the root issue in the Gary Lineker situation. He didn’t present the news. He hosted Match of the Day. But he became so synonymous with the BBC that people stopped separating what he did professionally from what he said personally.
So when he reshared an Instagram story that included a rat (a symbol with long-standing antisemitic connotations) it triggered far more than online criticism. It raised real concerns for Jewish licence fee payers who saw it and thought: Why am I funding this?
Lineker apologised. He deleted the post and called it a mistake. And to be clear, I don’t believe he’s antisemitic in the slightest. His public stance on racism and discrimination has always been consistent, and by all accounts, he seems like a thoughtful, principled person. But reputationally, that kind of error doesn’t just disappear. It lingers, especially when you’ve already been cautioned by your employer before.
He wasn’t a journalist - but that didn’t matter
There’s a tendency to assume that only newsreaders are held to strict impartiality standards. But in practice, anyone recognisable as “BBC talent” is expected to maintain a public image that doesn’t interfere with the organisation’s neutrality.
The BBC’s own editorial guidelines make it clear: staff and contributors can affect public perceptions of impartiality, even through personal social media. That expectation is built in, whether you’re reading headlines or talking about match stats.
In a recent interview with The Telegraph, Lineker stated: “If you are silent on Gaza, you are complicit.” And while I understand where that sentiment comes from - and even respect it in theory - it creates a strange kind of contradiction when you’re still tied to a platform that expects you to be exactly that: silent.
He wasn’t a journalist. He didn’t report the news. But the BBC still required him to behave as if he were neutral, and that includes staying quiet on political conflict. So it’s difficult to have it both ways. To say that silence is complicity while also needing the protection of an institution that depends on impartiality. It’s a moral stance that actively clashes with the professional constraints of the job.
And that’s exactly the tension - not just for Lineker, but for anyone trying to exist in both spaces at once.
I work in Crisis PR. I was genuinely surprised.
When you work in crisis PR, you have to be well-rounded and on top of global events, not just the headlines, but the nuance. It’s a running joke among my friends that whenever something major happens, they’ll just message me to ask what's going on, because they know I’ll have read everything already. I go out of my way to read left-wing and right-wing commentary, to build a full picture and help clients make informed, reputationally sound decisions.
So when I saw that story reshared, knowing how high the stakes were for someone like Lineker… I was honestly gobsmacked. Not just because it happened, but because someone so passionate about the issue didn’t seem to recognise such a basic, historic connotation with the rat.
Personally, I presumed it might have been a member of his team, someone less clued up on the history, who reposted it. But of course, once it’s out there, he can’t exactly say that. If he comes out and admits it wasn’t him, no one will take anything else he says seriously again. So he had to own it. Whether or not that’s what actually happened, that’s what it looked like from the outside.
Impartiality doesn’t work in a culture addicted to opinion
The BBC isn’t built for a media culture where commentary is constant and everything is politicised. Its structure still relies on what it calls “due impartiality” - balance appropriate to the subject and audience. But when silence is now read as complicity, those lines get harder to navigate.
This year’s Eurovision proved that clearly. The BBC didn’t just air the event, it contributed to it financially, as the hosting broadcaster. And Israel’s inclusion in the competition was confirmed well in advance. The moment the BBC committed to airing it, it was already complicit in the eyes of many viewers. That’s the pressure of impartiality now, even entertainment is politicised. Even decisions you didn’t fully make are seen as statements.
That’s the reality, and that’s why people like Lineker don’t fit.
Leaving isn’t failure - sometimes it’s strategy
Lineker will be fine. His podcast network is already a huge success. He now has the freedom to speak without editorial restrictions, compliance policies or public funding backlash. And I’d argue this is the best-case outcome for him, because from here, he can build a space entirely on his own terms.
He can grow a loyal, like-minded audience. He can express opinions, be political, post freely, and face the consequences only from the people who’ve chosen to be in his orbit. The BBC couldn’t offer him that. It was never going to.
If I were advising him from here, I’d suggest doubling down on his podcast platform, using it to reframe himself as not just a presenter, but a commentator with conviction. He now has a brand of his own, and if he’s smart with how he handles the next few months, he can own that space properly without any more brand dilution from institutions that were never designed to carry voices like his.
So what’s the real takeaway?
Working for the BBC isn’t just a job, it’s a contract. One that quietly requires you to forfeit a degree of personal voice in exchange for long-standing credibility and access to a national platform.
If you want total freedom of speech, you’ll likely have to step away from the legacy institutions that require neutrality. And once you do, there’s no middle ground. You can’t cherry-pick the perks of the BBC and discard the constraints.
You don’t get to keep the brand and abandon the boundaries.