by Gwen Russell
‘I wake up each morning and hope Jeremy will disappear down a big hole in the ground,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing about him that I like. He dresses appallingly, likes long-haired seventies rock bands and he’s got the worst hairstyle in Britain since Kevin Keegan stopped having that terrible perm. He’s created this image out of nothing, but really he’s just a middle-class boy who’s a bit sad. He thinks he’s a rebel because he sneaked away to town for a couple of pints of cider and got expelled from an expensive public school. Where I come from, bad behaviour is joy riding and dealing heroin, cocaine and Ecstasy.
‘He’s managed to create a cottage industry from his image and has made a lot of money, but basically it’s all a sham. His antics at school amount to nothing more than Bunteresque schoolboy japes … making apple-pie beds for the headmaster, refusing to fag for the sixth formers and smoking cigarettes behind the dorm. And, as for his boasts with girls, I bet if one had come on to Jeremy when he was at school, he’d have run a mile.’
With that, Steve turned to analysing the difference between Jeremy and himself. ‘Clarkson receives a load of hate mail, but I get letters from women who want me to father their children,’ he explained. ‘A lot of Jeremy’s mail has to be vetted by the BBC because so many of the viewers take exception to him. But I get letters that say, “Dear Steve, I’m a happily married woman with three children, but I dream of the day you’ll arrive outside my three-bed semi on a hugely powerful motorcycle, clad from head to toe in black leather, and whisk me away for a life of sex, drugs and rock and roll!”
‘We give each other’ – by this time Steve was talking about Jeremy again, not the happily married housewife – ‘a load of stick when we’re working together. He was taking the mick out of me on TV the other day, so I returned the compliment. I said on-air, “The heaviest part of any car is the engine – unless, of course, Jeremy is driving it, because he is a bit of a porker.”’
It is difficult to know what provoked this. It’s possible, of course, that Steve was only joking, but it didn’t really come across as such. It’s also possible that he thought this would create some extra publicity for the show. As for Clarkson himself, he was mystified. ‘I’m shocked by this,’ he said. ‘There has never been anything to provoke this sort of outburst. I can’t think what I’ve done to offend Steve in this way. I never realised he didn’t like me.’
This attack, however, certainly didn’t put Clarkson off his stride. Indeed, he seemed keener than ever to take on daredevil missions on television, with his next venture entitled Extreme Machines, a series of trials of some of the fastest vehicles in the world. This really was serious boys’ toys territory: Jeremy and his crew were to try out everything from snowmobiles and hydroplanes to Formula One powerboats, New Zealand Zorb balls and Second World War P-51 Mustangs. This was not for the faint-hearted and along the way the crew had some very nasty incidents. The cameraman’s plane ran out of fuel in mid-flight, the soundman had a heart attack while scaling a 40ft supertanker and everyone was caught in an alligator-infested swamp in Florida.
Jeremy was quite open about the fact that it was not an easy ride. The worst bit, he said, came when he went in a US Air Force F-15. ‘I had no idea just how violent the effects of the G-forces were going to be,’ he said. ‘I was violently sick inside the cockpit after one high-speed manoeuvre and when I got out after the 90-minute ride I just collapsed. I couldn’t talk, think or sit up and it took me all day to recover. It’s the first time in my life I’ve been lost for words.’
He certainly did seem to have been slightly shaken by the experience. ‘You wear these trousers that explode,’ he said. ‘When the G-force starts, compressed air shoots into them to tighten everything up and stop the blood from going into your legs. It is quite disconcerting: they just go bang! [But] when you are in the heavens, you don’t have the sensation of speed that you have when you are in a car, or when you are close to the ground. He [the pilot] did at one stage take me very low and then accelerated very fast. He climbed from 1,000ft to 18,000ft in eleven seconds. You can’t even conceive of what that does to your ears.’
That was not the only ordeal in the making of the series. On another occasion, Jeremy and his crew were on a swamp buggy in Florida when disaster struck. ‘One minute we were whizzing along and the next we had capsized in alligator-infested waters,’ said Clarkson. ‘You’ve never seen four people scrambling to get out of the water so quickly. Luckily, we got out before the alligators got to us, but we never saw the cameras and other equipment again.’
And in case viewers were left in any doubt as to how wearing all of this really was, his colleague Murray Clarke actually had a heart attack while filming the series. ‘It was dreadful because we all had to get off this tanker via a rope ladder in the middle of the sea,’ Jeremy recalled. ‘Murray’s a very fit guy, but he had a heart attack that put him in hospital for three months.’ All told, the entire team was glad when the filming was over. ‘I’m just glad to be back without anyone getting killed,’ Jeremy said.
The experience did leave a mark. No one could have accused Clarkson of boasting about his physical courage, for he was adamant that he didn’t have any. ‘It was really scary, but something I’m glad I did, because when I’m sitting on a porch in my eighties with a single malt, I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren,’ he said. ‘The trouble with making these programmes is I have pipe cleaners for arms, a beer gut and smoke too much. I’m Mr Timid, who even holds on to the banister when walking downstairs.’
Again, however, another side of Jeremy briefly came to light. He was now bona fide both rich and famous, but it seemed to bring on at least moments of introspection. He had come in for a great deal of teasing about his sometimes lascivious remarks about cars, and seemed to be giving some thought as to what the sexual connotation of a car really is.
‘Man’s relationship with a car is an interesting one,’ he said, when asked about the subject. ‘I don’t know where the sexual side of it comes in – all this stuff about E-types with bonnets like penises – I’ve never really understood that.’ But had not Clarkson revelled in exactly that type of description? Not according to him. ‘Cheap sexual metaphors,’ he said of his style of presenting. ‘Muriel Gray said the other day, “All you do for a living is make cheap sexual metaphors.” So I’ve stopped. And it was becoming easy – it is jolly easy to say, “This car snaps knicker elastic at twenty paces”, or “If this car were a women it would be Daryl Hannah.” But I’ve done it now. I’ve got to think of new ways of describing cars – I’m in limbo at the moment. I’m probably being a bit dull.’
It was an interesting conundrum: how to get the very sense of the car across while staying verbally on the straight and narrow. Jeremy was in brooding mode. ‘The excitement of the car is the speed of it,’ he said. ‘That’s the essence of it, isn’t it? But you can’t just say, “This car is fast,” or, “This car does 186 miles an hour.” You have to explain what it feels like to be in a deckchair on a quiet, peaceful afternoon and a Boeing 747 flies into the small of your back. That is what acceleration feels like. You have to find new ways to describe it.’
But he couldn’t resist a return to the imagery for which he had become so well known. ‘Treat your car like a metal overcoat and think about what style you want to project,’ he argued. ‘There’s no need anymore for any long, phallic bonnets. If you drive one of those big people carriers with eight seats, it’s like, “Hey, mine works fine, mate. Look at all my children.”’
And the Clarkson collection of cars was itself building up. To the amusement of some onlookers, Francie’s BMW had come to the attention of the public; Jeremy grumbled slightly, but was fairly restrained. Indeed, he bordered on the complimentary. ‘It is an amazing car,’ he said. ‘The doors don’t open, they drop down. You push this button and the whole thing goes bzzzz and shoots down there so you can drive along with the doors down. It’s not my idea of perfection, of course,’ he said, suddenly remembering himself, ‘beca
use it is a BMW. I’m not very fond of BMWs – they tend to be driven by plonkers.’
Jeremy’s family life was, in fact, a settled and happy part of his life. The Clarksons had discovered that it worked so well to have Francie act as her husband’s manager that, far from keeping them under one another’s feet, it produced a good working relationship as well as a successful private one. ‘It works beautifully,’ said Francie. ‘I have an office at home and manage all Jeremy’s affairs. My admin skills weren’t up to much in the beginning, but I’ve got quite proficient and I’ve always been good with money.’
If truth be told, it was actually, contrary to appearances, Jeremy who was the stickler for routine, while Francie was more chaotic. ‘He’s like the reverse of what they say about swans,’ said Francie. ‘Jeremy glides along below the surface, but he’s paddling like mad above it. He may give the impression of seeming rather shambolic in his approach to life, but in reality he’s little short of a perfectionist. He is completely organised and a stickler for meeting every deadline. The truth is, I’m the chaotic one and I’m supposed to be the one that runs him.’
This impression was reinforced by another Clarkson outburst, this one about timekeeping. Indeed, it made him sound more like a crusty old habitué of a traditional gentleman’s club than TV’s bad boy. ‘It’s so rude,’ he said on the subject of lateness. Nor did he take it kindly when people thought he really was a monster. ‘People think I bite the heads off chickens, that I can never be anywhere on time, that I don’t care a fig about anything, that I’m a poor father. But that’s not me. Just ask Francie.’
He was, in fact, becoming increasingly domesticated. In public, the Clarkson image continued to be that of the wild man but at home, it was quite a different story. Jeremy was a devoted father and did his bit with the children, although, as Francie explained, there were limits. Asked if he was a good father, she replied, ‘Absolutely brilliant. [But] he announced from the outset that he just couldn’t deal with poo. I told him that was fine – I couldn’t deal with sick.’
‘It isn’t just me being silly,’ interjected Jeremy. ‘Even seeing a dirty nappy makes me physically gag. So I’ve never changed either of the children’s nappies.’
Except once. ‘My sister had been ill and I’d got home from seeing her a bit later than I’d said,’ explained Francie. ‘There was Jeremy, with one of those Yasser Arafat-type scarves drenched in Chanel wrapped round his mouth, a snorkel mask over his eyes and nose and a pair of Marigold gloves on his hands. He’d been undressing Emily for her bath and discovered a full nappy.’
On other occasions, incidentally, Clarkson was a bit more laid-back about the whole area: when asked if he’d ever changed a nappy, he replied, ‘It has been known.’
However, all that just put him at one with the men who admired him: like him, they were middle-class fathers, trying to combine work with the demands of being a new man, nappy changing and all. His tastes were fairly Middle England, too, even if they did lean rather more towards Tom Clancy than Charles Dickens. Indeed, the former ranked as one of his favourite novelists. ‘I have two [favourites],’ he said. ‘Tom Clancy and Nick Hornby. Nick Hornby is funny – I loved his High Fidelity, and Tom Clancy’s books are very, very exciting. Kids should be reading books like that in schools, not Shakespeare, when you can’t even understand the language.’ Shakespeare was to come in for a bit of aggro, as well, when Clarkson was championing Isambard Kingdom Brunel as the greatest ever Briton and Shakespeare was one of the other contenders. But more of that later.
Meanwhile, the country continued to lap up information about Clarkson’s tastes. His most treasured book? ‘Monty Python’s Big Red Book, which was signed by all of them,’ he replied. ‘My dad knew John Cleese years ago – they met in a restaurant in Earl’s Court. I was about fourteen and a colossal Monty Python fan; I still am. I was taken to see them backstage and went out to dinner with them.’
His taste in what he watched on the box was much in the same vein. ‘Mostly films, apart from the Fast Show, which is obviously unmissable, as is Steve Coogan’s Alan Partridge, which I rank alongside Monty Python, Fawlty Towers and Blackadder,’ he said. This was practically Middle England, or at least men of a certain age in Middle England, made flesh. Jeremy was not only popular with the viewers, but his tastes were exactly like theirs. Was it any wonder he got mobbed now wherever he went?
It went on. His radio station of choice? ‘Largely Virgin Radio in London,’ said Clarkson. ‘But I can’t get it at home in Chipping Norton so – this is embarrassing – I’ve started listening to Radio 2.’ And what soap opera would he most like to live in? ‘Dallas. I wouldn’t want to live in any of the places the British soaps are set in. There should be one in Fulham, with nice properties and agreeable people.’ It was all very middle class – and ultra safe at that.
But you can’t keep a good lad down. Clarkson occasionally grumbled that people only ever saw the laddish side to him and no one ever realised he was a grown-up man with an estate in the country and two children, but then he did himself sometimes conform to that stereotype. When asked about his favourite music for the car, no one should have been surprised at the answer: ‘I have a collection of good seventies’ rock bands, Oasis’ (What’s The Story) Morning Glory? and a collection of James Bond hits,’ he said. ‘Believe it or not, I am rather a slow driver – my wife says I dawdle. So when I’m in a hurry, I put on a James Bond and I get home quicker.’
Nor could you keep his opinions tucked away for long. Asked who he would like to serve him breakfast in bed, Clarkson replied, ‘Other than my wife? Tony Blair. I took the train the other day and it was ridiculously late. I’d say, “No more grinning, Tony, just build some roads.”’ And his first act as world leader? ‘I’d get rid of the USA and Switzerland,’ he somewhat mysteriously announced. ‘They wouldn’t be allowed to be countries; I might cover them with sea. After that, I’d get rid of all the bus lanes in the world.’
CHAPTER 6
LIFE IN THE FAST LANE
His image was now set in stone: a devoted motorist who loved fast cars, loved driving, was not overly concerned about the environment and pretty much felt that, environmentally speaking, the planet could look after itself. Or was it? Much to the shock of just about everyone, Jeremy – who once remarked that bicycles should be taxed ‘For hogging a third of the road’ – was quite suddenly outed as being a cyclist himself. In the process, he became the subject of some good-natured teasing. ‘It is a terrible and unexpected shock,’ said his friend and fellow Top Gear presenter Quentin Willson. ‘He has never once mentioned owning a bike to me. Perhaps he’s a budding environmentalist – think of our ratings!’
Clarkson took it on the chin. ‘I admit to having cycled about five miles a day for the last month, but I don’t like it and it has nothing to do with the environment,’ he admitted, as it was revealed that his shameful vehicle was a twenty-one-gear Raleigh mountain bike. ‘I was recently described as looking like Stephen Fry’s older, fatter sister. Now I’m lithe, like a racing snake.’
And, as a further sign of the biter bitten, Clarkson went on to reveal that a gang of youths in a car had yelled taunts at him when he was on his bike. ‘One of them leaned out the window and suggested that my seed fell on fallow ground,’ he said. ‘When they realised who I was, they turned around and shouted the same thing, but inserted the word “turncoat” in front of it.’
Francie – who had let the secret out in the first place – leapt to her husband’s defence. ‘To be frank, his behaviour is getting worse, not better,’ she assured an appalled public. ‘He has starting scouring the countryside for beef on the bone and he has a loathing for anything green.’
By now, the story was assuming a momentum of its own. It is hard to think of anyone else in the country who could have got such extensive coverage merely for riding a bicycle (with the possible exception of the then eccentric Mayor of London and former editor of The Spectator Boris Johnson), but Jeremy was now s
o well known as a basher of all things green that this really was deemed newsworthy. Clarkson’s friend Andy Willman, who had produced Extreme Machines, joined in the fun. He was equally determined that this had nothing to do with looking after nature. ‘I accept the bike thing is shocking,’ he said. ‘He has definitely not been talking about it, but I’d say it had more to do with his gut than the environment at large.’
The local villagers thoroughly enjoyed hearing the news. ‘The bike will certainly be very different from his red Ferrari,’ said Jeremy Catling of the nearby Cotswolds newsagents. ‘People in the town stand gawping at it, but I can’t see them doing that with a bike.’
Gwyn Osborn, landlord of the Wagon and Horses in the village, said, ‘I think a bike will make a pleasant change for him. He might enjoy it once he gets used to it. For my money, it’s good that he is doing his bit for the environment.’ Clarkson’s views on that last point are unknown.
In actual fact, there are signs that Clarkson’s attitude towards the environment is rather more ambiguous than he publicly lets on. He will certainly say and do anything that comes to mind to raise the hackles of the environmental lobby – and given the sometimes sanctimonious nature of their protestations, his actions are not altogether without merit – but Jeremy is not a foolish man. He himself has children and is thus as concerned as anyone about the future of the world. Sometimes he has mentioned the Arctic ice cap melting and, of the cars he drives, not all of them are gas-guzzling road hogs. But he would never, ever let on that green issues hold any interest for him whatsoever: he cultivates the image that he has no intention of allowing it to soften.
The same applies to so much of his public image. He can talk about cars that snap knicker elastic until the cows come home, and yet there is no evidence whatsoever that he is genuinely sexist. As he himself was at pains to point out, his life was run by a woman – his wife. And then there’s the fact that the parent he most closely resembles is his mother. But given his image, and he doesn’t do a lot to counteract this view of him, people tend to assume he’s chauvinistic. In actual fact, he’s not.