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Clarkson for Prime Minister
- Jeremy Clarkson for Prime Minister
- Me, Myself, and I
- Mr Clarkson views are so true, and with so many people in agreement that there is a possible chance that he could enter politics and address the issues.
Why don't you Jeremy?...You have my vote.
John Redpath, Manchester
(Posted on the Times website)
Make it Happen.
Register your signature on the Goverment's website:
Some say he is the spawn of Beelzebub, put on Earth to lead mankind from the slow lanes of righteousness on a wild, tyre-smoking ride to perdition. Millions around the globe worship him and intone his heresies. His power grows by the day and soon, if his British acolytes have their way, Jeremy Clarkson will be installed as the next prime minister.
The 6ft 5in Top Gear presenter and Sunday Times columnist has until recently been content to bestride the worlds of motoring, journalism and publishing. But now more than 31,000 people, in thrall to Clarkson’s forthright opinions and devilish charm, have signed a petition on the prime minister’s website calling on Gordon Brown to step aside for the 47-year-old sage.
It may be sheer coincidence, of course, that the campaign was submitted by someone called Joseph Dark. His followers’ idolatry is undisguised over on the Facebook website, where an even bigger head of steam is building up. More than 264,000 people have subscribed to a similar petition, which states: “Clarkson is as close to a god [as] any mere mortal can get. His straightforward nononsense attitude would make our country great once more.”
This is a man, remember, who in his column last weekend urged the Archbishop of Canterbury to close down the Church of England with the words: “I tell you this, beardie. Many, many more people have died in the name of God than were killed in the name of Hitler.” This is a potential leader who has compared getting behind the wheel of a Ford GT40 to “opening the Holy Grail to find Cameron Diaz in there, naked and bored”.
The Clarkson effect is a modern phenomenon. Some 350m viewers worldwide tune in to Top Gear, BBC2’s most popular programme, to watch the unholy trinity of Clarkson and his sidekicks Richard (the Hamster) Hammond and James (Captain Slow) May do violence to cars, play conkers with caravans and indulge in blokey pranks. The multitudes devour his books: currently his paperback And Another Thing is second in the Sunday Times bestseller list and his latest tome, Don’t Stop Me Now, is the third hottest hardback.
The contagion affects all ages, from young boys who miraculously start reading thanks to Clarkson, and teenage girls who giggle helplessly at his black humour, to the old. Many express a powerlessness to resist. “Clarkson made us do it,” wrote a couple who contributed £50 to the soldiers’ charity Help for Heroes, which has raised £450,000 from Sunday Times readers since Clarkson became its voluble patron.
“The Clarkson effect is incredible,” said Bryn Parry, the campaign’s organiser. “When he put his weight behind us it became acceptable to support the soldiers without implying that you were necessarily supporting the war.”
Clarkson outlined his political manifesto in The Sun yesterday. He plans to begin by reversing all legislation made by Brown and Tony Blair since 1997 – “transport, health, the war, the treatment of our soldiers, the EU, the bloody environment, the hunting ban, the smoking ban, the endless tax demands on motorists . . .”. Then he will break for lunch and a snooze before going on holiday.
To many, a Clarkson regime sounds fun. But AA Gill, his friend and fellow Sunday Times columnist, is compelled to disagree: “It couldn’t get any wronger than having Jeremy in charge. I would have problems sending my child to a nursery school that had Jeremy on the board of governors. I say this with love and respect, but I just don’t want him ever to have a switch that’s attached to anything.”
In Gill’s opinion, Clarkson’s “Canute-like” denial of global warming should disqualify him from office: “He is the last man standing on the beach commanding the glaciers’ melt waters to go back.” The only conceivable advantage of having Clarkson as PM, Gill concedes, is that his wife, Francie, might succeed him à la Hillary Clinton: “She’d be a fantastic prime minister.” As the
0 Comments 271 weeks
As I write, the newspapers are full of pictures of an 11-year-old girl who, on a drunken one-night stand, managed to get pregnant.
She's sitting on a sofa, a fag in one hand and an overflowing ashtray perched on one knee. Her stomach is huge. And in the next room, we see her mother, smoking a little smack and telling reporters that she's very proud. No dear, that's the wrong word. You're not proud. You're a stupid waste of the world's resources.
And she's not alone. In fact, I am becoming increasingly concerned with the sheer number of properly idiotic people who call Britain home.
Last year, towards the end of an all-weekend open-air gig, I went to the portable lavatories in the VIP enclosure. You know the sort. Blue water, a dead flower and lots of powder on all the shelving. Anyway, they were immaculate.
This was not the case with the bogs provided outside the VIP enclosure. They were in a total state. Piss on the floor, shit on the walls, entire bog rolls unravelled and stuffed down the pan. Now come on. How hard is it to use a lavatory? And how thick do you have to be to get it wrong?
You see this kind of thing at motorway service stations as well. I had cause to visit one the other day and it was extraordinary. Even the Polish lorry drivers in there were standing, hands on hips, wondering exactly how anyone had managed to get crap on the ceiling. Not even cows can do that.
'I am becoming increasingly concerned with the sheer number of properly idiotic people who call Britain home'
These were people who had grown up under the hammer of communism. They'd had to queue for bread, knowing that just a few hundred miles away in the west, people were buying Hovis to feed to the birds. I wonder how they would have felt if they had known we couldn't go for a piss without getting it into someone's eye.
And here's the thing. All these people - mothers of pregnant 11-year olds, van drivers who are confused by plumbing - are all eligible to do jury service.
I spoke yesterday to a friend who had sat through the trial of a chap who had come from Lagos with a suitcase full of cocaine. He'd told police that he had no idea what was in the bag, only that he had been asked to deliver it to a house in central London - a house which turned out, surprise, surprise, to be empty when it was raided.
Plainly, the man was guilty. Anyone with half a brain could see that. But unfortunately, half the jury didn't have half a brain. Most, apparently, didn't have a brain at all.
Two couldn't read the card saying they understood what was going on, one woman said that no matter what, she couldn't find a fellow black person guilty of anything, and another two said they weren't that bothered which way the vote went, so long as they could go home. To piss all over the bathroom floor, probably.
As a result, the drug smuggler walked free.
Now, as I understand it, there are certain conditions that have to be met before you can do jury service. One of them is that you must have a sound mind. This was included in the rules to prevent window lickers from turning up in jock straps and army boots and making dolphin noises throughout the proceedings.
You can't have someone decide your fate if he thinks he's a Cylon from Battlestar Gallactica. Fine. Good. But can you have your fate decided by someone who's proud of her chain-smoking, pregnant, 11-year-old daughter? Or someone who is confused by lavatory paper?
I spoke the other day with someone who said didn't like fish. What, all fish? Fish in batter? Fish with chips? Prawns, cod, sea bass, trout, smoked salmon? What he means is, I have never tried fish. Because my parents were too stupid to buy it.
And get this. On a Radio 2 quiz the other day, contestant was asked what happens to water at 32 on the Fahrenheit scale. After much umming and aahing, she said confidently, "It melts".
Now here's a woman who's allowed to do jury service, to have a say in who
3 Comments 285 weeks
As the nation settled down on Wednesday night to watch England play Croatia, I sensed an air of optimism in the land. A feeling that all would be well. I mean hey, England were holding their own against Brazil when Croatia didn’t even exist as a nation state. So what chance would these swarthy-looking Yugo-ruffians have? They were minnows in a tank of sharks. They weren’t going to be beaten. They were going to be eaten.
Hmmm. I’m afraid I knew we were going to lose moments before the match began. I looked at our players mumbling their way through the national anthem and realised they didn’t really care about playing for England. Because they don’t really know what England is. And truth be told, neither do I.
When I was their age it was crystal clear. Newspapers would report: “Fog in the Channel: Europe cut off.” Peter Ustinov would arrive at JFK airport and, having studied the signs saying “US citizens” and “Aliens”, he’d ask a security guard where the British should go. We were separate, different, better.
We had hardback dark blue passports with a personal message from the Queen on the inside cover “requiring” that foreign border guards allow the bearer to do whatever he or she pleased without let or hindrance. Slap one of those down on a Frenchman’s desk and the crack of invitation grade cardboard would have the greasy little oik sitting up straight; that’s for sure.
We had saved the world from tyranny so often we’d lost count; we’d brought decency, truth and cricket to every continent and every coral pinprick. We’d sailed iron steamships into America when they were still using coracles. We were defined by our brilliance, our superiority, our technical know-how.
Today, things are rather different. Mention the war and you’ll be told by an outreach counsellor that we must empathise with the Germans, who are coming to terms with their mistakes of the past. “And you know, children, it was actually the British who invented concentration camps . . .”
Empire? When I was at school, teachers spoke with pride about how a little island in the north Atlantic turned a quarter of the world pink, but now all teachers talk about is the slave trade and how we must hang our heads in shame.
Right. So we must forgive Germany for invading Poland. But I must beat myself to death every night because my great-great-great-grandad moved some chap from a hellhole in Ghana to Barbados. In fact I can’t even say we’re British any more because then all of Scotland would rush over the border, pour porridge down my trousers and push a thistle up my bottom.
I believe people need to feel like they’re part of a gang, part of a tribe. And I also believe we need to feel pride in our gang. But all we ever hear now is that we in England have nothing to be proud about. In a world of righteousness we are the child molesters and rapists.
Our soldiers were murderers. Our empire builders were thieves. Our class system was ridiculous and our industrial revolution set in motion a chain of events that, eventually, will kill every polar bear in the Arctic.
And it gets so much worse. Because if you say you are a patriot, men with beards and sandals will come round to your house in the night and daub BNP slogans on your front door. This is the only country in the world where the national flag is deemed offensive. Small wonder the England players were disinclined to sing the national anthem with any gusto. It’s in English and that’s offensive too. Unless it’s simultaneously translated into Urdu, for the deaf.
Then there’s our national character. In the past, boys were told in school assembly that their mothers had died and were expected to get over it in a nice game of rugby. Crying only happened abroad. Not any more. We were ordered to weep like Americans when Diana died, and no local news report is complete today without some fat oik sobbing because his house has fallen ov
0 Comments 285 weeks
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