Jeremy Clarkson
IS IT REALLY TOO MUCH TO ASK?
The World According to Clarkson
Volume Five
Contents
Hounded by the ash cloud on my escape
Help, Mr Spock, I need you to pilot my hi-tech new flat
Traffic storm troopers won’t let me buy a bra
Roll up to look at my pebbles – just £5 a ticket
Madam Minister, your briefs are full of flirty, dirty talk
Sheep are the robbers’ new bullion
Please, carry on filming, I’m only burning to death
Surgery to solve the deficit – cut off Scotland
Give to my new charity – Britain’s Got Trouble
No prison for you – just lick my cesspit clean
Move along, officer, it’s just a spot of dogging
Burial? Cremation? Boil-in-the-bag?
Don’t misread the whiff of Cameron’s armpits
A few song lyrics could have done for Piers
England’s fate is in your hands, Ambassador
Concussion is what holidays are all about
I’ve sprayed wasps with glue, now what?
Naughty bits & melons – I learnt it all in Albania
Beware – Arabella won’t stop at hay rustling
One dose of this and you could turn into a werewolf
But I’ve killed Baz already, Mr Safety Instructor
This tired old bird deserves another chance
Just speak English, Johnny Europe
Turkey joining the EU? Over my dead dog’s body
No one needs to know their adze from their elbow
Use Jordan and Jemima to sell Britain
Foraging – an old country word for violent death
WikiLeaks – I dare you to face Roger Sensible
Stop all the clocks for British No Time
The small society built on jam and dung
Proud to sponsor this police shootout
Hello, reception. I’ve actually used my bed, please don’t be angry
This kingdom needs a dose of Norse sense
Big smile – and check me down below for ticks
Cancel the breast op and buy an iron lung
A man’s ego hangs in his downstairs loo
We didn’t have an affair – and that’s all you need to be told
Garçon! A hike in my flat’s value, please
A quake’s nothing until it becomes a wobbly iDisaster
I’m going to cure dumb Britain
Advice for men – don’t try to keep your hair on
We demand our weekends back, Adolf Handlebar
Houston, our spaceships are ugly
Look what that little DVD pirate is really doing
Dear BBC, why d’ya think Dick Whittington gave Salford a miss?
Okay, I’ll come clean on Rebekah and the Chipping Norton plot
Okay, tontine tango birdie, let’s baffle ’em with insider talk
Get on your roof, everyone, and give Biggles an eyeful
That’s it – one fluffed backhand and I’m broken as a father
French porn and a little software can save our schools
Oh, Berbatovs – I’ve got to learn footballspeak
My daughter and I stepped over the body and into a brothel
Own up, we all had a vile streak long before going online
Down, boy! Fido’s fallen in love with the vacuum cleaner
Street lights and binmen? Luxuries we just can’t afford
Ker-ching! I’ve got a plan to turn India’s pollution into pounds
Look out, dear, a carbuncle is heading your way
Oh, the vita is dolce. But the music? Shaddap you face
Down periscope! I’ve found an airtight way to quit smoking
No more benefits: I’m putting the idle on the bread and sherry line
I walked tall into Savile Row – and left a broken man
Harry’s chopper makes mincemeat of Will’s whirlybird
A Daily Mail scoop: I’m a nurse-killing Hitler in blue jeans
My RAF training was dull – until I got to bomb Piers Morgan
A Commons or garden blunder by the duke of digging
No, Fido, the law says you can eat Raffles – not Postman Pat
Skis on, break a leg … and take Sarko to the cleaners
We’ve got a million words for sex but not one for best friend
Carry on sniping at the rich, Ed, and I just might steal your seat
Having to sell the family silver – it’s comedy gold
Listen, officer, that gravy boat is the key to Whitney’s death
Lord Lucan must be dead – no one can escape YouTube
Those pesky stars just won’t expose themselves any more
Three men go into a bar … and I couldn’t hear the punchline
Even James ‘Thunder’ May couldn’t make wind farms work
Smell my cologne: it’s called Girlie Tosh pour Homme
A cheap booze ban will just drive your pooch to hooch
Exploding Art Snob – it’s the best Hirst masterpiece yet
Where’s the Dunkirk spirit? Doing a runner to Australia
Welcome to the fifty-fourth series of Top Gear. I’m seventy-seven, you know
Heston’s grub is great – but so what if your date is ugly?
One hundred lines, Miliband Minor: ‘I must not show off in class’
Girls, gongs and JR – if only I’d worn a jockstrap
I’m desperate to be a German – call me Gunther Good-Loser
Go on, troll me – but leave your name and address
Kaboom! It’s my turn to play fantasy climate change
They’ve read Milton, Mr Gove, now get ’em to rewire a plug
Blow me up, Scotty, before I land on your Manx home
And your premium bond prize is … a seat in the Lords
Cheer up, Mewling Murray, you’ve made it into Boohoo’s Who
We’re all running as Team GB, the grim bellyachers
Stop, or I’ll shoot … about 100 yards off to your right
Listen, Fritz, we’ll do the efficiency now – you write the gags
Arise, Sir Jeremy – defier of busybody croupiers and barmen
P-p-please open up, Arkwright, I need some t-t-t-trousers
Oh, my head hurts – I’ve a bad case of hangover envy
If breasts are no big deal, girls, don’t get them reupholstered
Call me Comrade Clarkson, liberator of the jobsworths
If foreigners weren’t watching, we’d be lynching bell-ringers
Take another step, Simba, and you’ll feel my foldaway spoon
So, the Scouts came to earth in a reptilian space plane, right?
This lanky git will call you what he wants, ref – you blind idiot
Chew on a Big Mac with fibs before you answer a survey
Yes, siree – count me in for genocide and conservatory-building
Coming soon, I’m a Terrorist … Make Me Lick Nadine’s Toes
Write in now, eel fanciers, and claim your million quid
Of all the towns in all the world, Cold, Wet and Closed is best
Help, I’ve lost track of world affairs in Bradley’s barnet
Stand by, Earth, to boldly look where there’s no point looking
Dim staff and no stock: the key to hanging on in the high street
Forget the cat and the pension, wrinklies, a gap year beckons
Your next HS2 service is the 3.15 to Victorian England
Oh, waiter, can I pay with this microchipped finger?
Hello, sailor. Show me what Britain is really made of
Work on the accen
t, Brum, and Tom Cruise will be in for a balti
As Russians say, manners maketh the British late
Follow Penguin
By the same author
Motorworld
Jeremy Clarkson’s Hot 100
Jeremy Clarkson’s Planet Dagenham
Born to be Riled
Clarkson on Cars
The World According to Clarkson
I Know You Got Soul
And Another Thing
Don’t Stop Me Now
For Crying Out Loud!
Driven to Distraction
How Hard Can It Be?
Round the Bend
The Top Gear Years
In loving memory of Caro
The contents of this book first appeared in Jeremy Clarkson’s Sunday Times column. Read more about the world according to Clarkson every week in the Sunday Times.
Hounded by the ash cloud on my escape
On Thursday morning I woke up in Colditz Castle, drove to Poland and found that I couldn’t fly back to England as planned because all of northern Europe was shrouded in a cloud of ash that was thick enough to bring down a jetliner. But, mysteriously, not so thick that it was actually visible.
Brussels, then. That would be the answer. We’d drive at 180mph on the limit-free autobahns to Berlin, fly to Belgium and catch the Eurostar to London.
This, however, turned out to be ambitious, because the only vehicle we could lay our hands on was a knackered Volkswagen van that had a top speed of four. So Prague, then. That was nearer. Yes. We’d start from there instead.
Unfortunately, the index of our map was broken down into countries. And we didn’t actually know which country we were in. We’d see a sign for Lückendorf, so I’d look it up in the index. But would it be filed under Germany, Poland or the Czech Republic? And how would it be spelt? The Germans may call it Lückendorf but the Poles might call it something entirely different. In much the same way that people in India call Bombay ‘Bombay’. But the BBC insists on calling it ‘Mumbai’.
By the time I’d decided Lückendorf doesn’t really exist, we’d found a sign for Bogatynia and that doesn’t seem to exist, either. The confusion meant that pretty soon we were on a farm track, our path blocked by a tractor that seemed to be scooping mud from a field and putting it on to the road. This encouraged us, since it seemed like a very un-German thing to do and all the Poles are in my bathroom at the moment. We had, therefore, to be near Praha, as the BBC doesn’t call it. But should.
We were, and our worries seemed to be over. But they weren’t. By this stage the invisible cloud of ash had settled on Belgium and Brussels airport was closed. No matter, we decided. We shall go to Paris and catch the train from there.
Oh, no, we wouldn’t. We learnt that all the Eurostar trains were chock-full but we figured that would be okay. We’d fly to Paris, rent a car and we’d drive home in that. Job done.
To celebrate, we went for a beer. I had a lot, if I’m honest, because I wanted to be too drunk to drive this last leg. I had so many that after a while Barclaycard decided it’d be fun to cancel my credit card. And I couldn’t phone to explain that if it didn’t turn the credit back on again, I’d come round to its offices with an axe. Because by this stage my phone was out of bullets. And then we found that our plane was due to land at Charles de Gaulle just five minutes before that shut down, too. Any delay would be catastrophic.
Normally, people getting on to a plane are fairly polite. We’re happy to stand in the aisle for hours while people try to fit the dishwasher they’ve bought into the overhead locker. I chose not to be so patient on this occasion, though, and as a result there were many injuries. But because of the violence, the plane took off on time and landed just before the Paris shutdown was due to begin.
By now I was Cardiff-on-a-Saturday-night drunk. And fairly desperate for a pee. But not so desperate that I failed to realize the gravity of the situation at Charles de Gaulle. You know those last moments in Titanic when the ship is finally going down? Well, it was nothing like that. It was worse.
In the baggage claim was a pretty girl asking if anyone could give her a lift to North Jutland. In the main concourse were businessmen begging rides to Amsterdam. And everyone was being approached by dodgy-looking North Africans with gold teeth and promises of taxis to anywhere. For you, my friend, special price.
Of particular note were the queues of people pointing and shouting at airline staff as though they were responsible somehow for the eruption. This seemed like an odd thing to do. I very much encourage assault, verbal or otherwise, on useless members of staff who won’t help. But yelling will not bring order to the planet’s mantle.
It’s funny, isn’t it? The airports had only been closed for six hours and society was cracking up. Not that I cared much about this because we had secured the last rental car in the whole airport and were in a rush to catch the midnight train from Calais. This meant there was no time for a pee.
By Senlis, my bladder was very full. By Lille, the pressure had become so great the contents had turned to amber. Ever peed from the window of a moving car? I have. It came out as pebbles. But it was worth it because at three in the morning I climbed into my own bed at home. Five countries. Planes. Trains and automobiles. And all because Mother Nature burped.
There is a warning here, because on the volcanic explosivity index (VEI) – which goes from one to eight – the eruption at Eyjafjallajokull will probably be classified as a two. And yet it shut down every airport in northern Europe. There are much bigger volcanoes in Iceland. They could, in theory, shut the whole world down for years.
Let’s not forget that back in 1980 Mount St Helens in Washington state blew with a VEI rating of five. It was a huge blast but only local air traffic was affected.
What’s changed, of course, is our attitude to safety, brought about in the main by our fear of being sued. Could volcanic ash bring down a jetliner? Fifteen-hundred miles from the scene of the volcano itself, it is extremely unlikely, but so long as there are lawyers, licking their lips at the prospect of proving the crash could have been avoided, air traffic controllers are bound to push the big button labelled ‘Stop’.
It won’t be a volcano that ends man’s existence on this planet. It’ll be the no-win no-fee lawyers. They are the ones who brought Europe to a halt last week. They are the ones who made a simple trip from Berlin to London into a five-country, all-day hammer blow on your licence fee. They are the ones who must be stopped.
18 April 2010
Help, Mr Spock, I need you to pilot my hi-tech new flat
In the olden days it was easy to make a television work. You plugged an aerial cable into the back, then bashed the top with your fist until, eventually, Hughie Green stopped jumping up and down. Things have changed. Have you tried to make a modern TV work? It cannot be done. No, don’t argue: it can’t. You have to get a man round and then it still won’t work because you have absolutely no idea what to press on the remote-control device. I am looking now at the plipper thing for the TV in my office. It has thirty-two buttons on it, including one marked ‘COMPO/(rgb 8)’.
Any idea what that does? I haven’t. I do understand the one marked ‘Power’, but this does not actually turn the television on. So far as I can tell, nothing does, which is why, for three years, it has been off. Frankly, for getting the news I’d have been better off building a chain of beacons.
Then there is the world of the mobile phone. Sometimes my wife asks me to answer her Raspberry and not once in a year have I been able to do so before the caller rings off. To my way of thinking, it’s not a communication device. It’s a sex toy for geeks. A laptop enthusiast’s Rabbit.
However, my life took a dramatic turn for the worse last week because I took delivery of a new flat in London. It’s been done up by a developer and fitted with every single item from every single gadget magazine in the universe. This means I cannot operate a single thing. Nothing, d’you hear? Nothing at all.
Let us
take, for example, the old-fashioned pleasure of making a cup of coffee. For many years this involved putting some water in a kettle and boiling it. But now kettles are seen as messy, which is why my new flat has a multi-buttoned aluminium panel set into the wall. The idea is that you fill it with beans and the boiling water is instant. Sounds great, but the instruction book is 400 pages long and I’m sorry, but if I waded through that, my longing for a cup of coffee would be replaced by a fervent need for a quart of Armagnac.
The coffee machine, though, is the tip of the iceberg. There’s a music system that can beam any radio station in the world into any room. Last night I selected a classic rock station from San Francisco and was enjoying very much the non-stop stream of Supertramp, until I wanted to go to bed. This meant turning the system off and, for me at least, that is impossible.
Normally, of course, you just hit the offending electronic good with a hammer or throw it on the floor – this works well for alarm clocks in hotel rooms – but I was holding a remote-control device. Smashing that into a million pieces, I realized, would not stop the noise. I needed to find the actual box and I couldn’t. So the only solution was to fly to California … and burn the radio station down.
I considered it but in the end went to bed to ‘The Logical Song’. The irony was not lost on me. This morning the station was playing ‘Dreamer’. The irony was lost on me there, though. In a boiling torrent of rage. It’s not just the music system and the kettle, either.
The extractor fan above the hob has seven settings. Why? What’s wrong with off and on? I can’t think of anything that’s less in need of seven settings … apart from maybe a pacemaker.
Other things? Well, I can’t open the garage door – it’s remote control, obviously – and the entry phone doesn’t appear to be connected to the front door. That means there’s an increased chance it’s connected to air traffic control at Heathrow and, as a result, I daren’t go near it.
Burglar alarm? Nope. Television? Nope. Broadband? Not a chance. And the cooker? Hmm, you could use its controls to remotely pilot a US Air Force spy drone. But to make a shepherd’s pie? Not in a million years. And, of course, I can’t contact the man who installed any of this stuff because he’s in Aspen. People who install high-tech equipment are always in bloody Aspen. This is because they’re always American.