by Gwen Russell
But for all Clarkson’s ability to amuse and upset, he kept his feet on the ground when it came to himself. He did not, as so many successful television presenters do, make the mistake of believing his own publicity. ‘It could be done by anyone who can write scripts and is enthusiastic about cars,’ he said of his work. ‘Top Gear is half an hour of entertainment fluff on a Thursday night and it has no effect whatsoever. I was very rude about the Escort, which is Britain’s bestselling car, and the world’s bestselling Toyota Corolla.
‘If you want passion, and I do, then it’s the seven-headed beast from Revelations, boring as a washing machine, designed on a fag pack in the coffee break. It’s probably the “We Hate Jeremy Clarkson” club at work. I don’t mind people writing to tell me I’m stupid or ill-informed, but I wouldn’t like to come face-to-face with them. I’m a bit shy, really.’ It was not a self-assessment everyone would have agreed with.
Nor did Jeremy ever let up. He had by now made it into the august pages of Who’s Who, where he listed his hobby as ‘smoking’. He maintained his son’s first word was ‘Ferrari’ and explained that ‘to argue that a car is simply a means of conveyance is like arguing that Blenheim Palace is simply a house.’ He even, of all extraordinary things, became the focus of attention because of the clothes he wore, and not in a complimentary way, either.
It was said that jeans had become unfashionable again, and that sales had fallen by thirteen per cent because people were put off by men like Jeremy wearing them. It became known as the ‘Clarkson Effect’, and Jeremy tackled it in his usual inimitable fashion. He had, he explained, got into trouble before: though Repton disputes it, he had been expelled from school; had the people of Norfolk found a ‘We Hate Jeremy Clarkson’ club; upset the makers of the Vauxhall Vectra; and called the Koreans dog-eaters. But now things had got serious. He was accused of having a deleterious effect on jeans.
‘I once popped into town wearing a pair of jeans and, within five minutes, Falmers – a British jeans company – went bust,’ he said. ‘And now, Levi Strauss is set to close down half of its American factories. Six thousand workers will be made redundant. There’ll be rioting on the streets; the National Guard will be called out.
‘And, apparently, it’s all my fault. Fashion gurus say that young people don’t want to be associated with “old gits” like me and blame a catastrophic thirteen per cent fall in jeans’ sales in what’s been christened the “Jeremy Clarkson Effect”. This is fantastic. Most people strive all their lives to get a miserable OBE or a so-what knighthood. And without even trying, I get my own “effect”.’
* * *
All told, matters were chugging on in a pretty satisfactory manner when, at the beginning of 1999, Jeremy dropped a bombshell. He was leaving Top Gear.
The news was a shock to everyone. Jeremy Clarkson, who had single-handedly turned motor journalism into a spectator sport, was leaving the show that had made him famous. Could this really be true? So closely was Clarkson linked with the programme that had made his name – indeed, the suggestion had been put forward, quite seriously, that it should be called Jeremy Clarkson’s Top Gear – that it seemed quite inconceivable that he would want to go. But he had been on the show for the best part of a decade and, like so many people before him, quite simply felt in need of a new challenge. He had been doing the same thing for a long time now and he wanted a break.
Jeremy was not going to be the only one affected by this decision. For a start, there were his fans. While Clarkson had not quite attained the status of a national institution, he wasn’t that far off, and for all the people he upset, riled and insulted, he had an enormous fan base of admirers, too. They were inconsolable: Clarkson was their icon. A man seemingly afraid of nothing and no one, who was never worried about speaking his mind; a man whose twin obsessions were sex and cars. There was no one else quite like Jeremy on the national stage, and while he had no intention of leaving it – there was plenty still to be working on in the pipeline – he was the absolute personification of man’s obsession with his car. Without him, could Top Gear continue as a programme in the way it had done before?
Not only was the public taken aback; it was a dreadful blow to the show’s producers, too. When Jeremy had first started working on Top Gear nine years earlier, its viewers numbered in the hundreds of thousands. Now there were about six million of them and that increase was almost certainly solely down to Clarkson. While the other presenters were popular, no one had quite the same mix of sardonic humour and ability to ruffle feathers as Clarkson. There was, quite simply, no one else who could step into his shoes.
But why, why, why was he going? Jeremy was straightforward about it. ‘I’d taken Top Gear as far as I could,’ he said. That was clearly how he felt at the time – he was later to change his mind – and anyway, he now had so much else to preoccupy him. Not only was he doing massive numbers of other shows about fast-moving vehicles, but he was also a talk show host. Just where was he going to find the time to do Top Gear?
Clarkson himself enlarged on the subject: Top Gear was becoming ever so slightly predictable. He couldn’t resist, however, putting it in his own inimitable way. ‘I got out partly because it is based in Birmingham and Birmingham is terrible,’ he announced. ‘But I also found I was writing in a formulaic way. The personality became more important than the product, and that was hopeless. I did try to broaden it. I’d liken cars to potatoes or espresso coffee or something, but people would write in and say, “Talk about Claudia Schiffer’s knickers”, so I’d go back to those similes. By the end, I don’t think I could have brought that programme another ounce of worth.’
So what was he going to do now? He was certainly much in demand. One group of people who clearly wanted him to find the time for them was the Conservative Party. Jeremy had never come down for one party or the other, but it would have been a little unlikely had he suddenly stood up and proclaimed his support for Labour, and so, initially, the Tories must have thought they were on to a good thing. More than that, Clarkson had recently pronounced on John Prescott’s transport policy – ‘His bill is lavatory paper in Phoney Tony’s downstairs loo’ – which would seem to indicate support for the other party. Wrong.
The row began when Francis Maude, the Shadow Chancellor, invited Jeremy to come and meet some senior members of the Conservative Party. He then went on to say: ‘Jeremy has great insight into the motoring industry. We would be interested in getting together.’
If this was a clumsy attempt to latch on to some of Clarkson’s popularity, it backfired spectacularly. Jeremy erupted, announcing he was going to ‘drive to London to shoot whoever thought up this ridiculous idea. Working for Mr Hague would be the last thing I would do.’ That was just the start of it. ‘They have not been in touch,’ he fumed. ‘I do not have an invitation on my mantelpiece. I would not mind so much had Francis Maude actually written to me, but he hasn’t. I have not had any form of communication. If a letter turns up, I will reply: “Thank you very much for your kind offer, but no thanks. I am not a politician.”’
He became increasingly heated as he went on. ‘I cannot remember ever having been so angry,’ he snapped. ‘I am no Tory puppet. When I heard what was being said, I said to my wife, “What did he say? What did this bastard say?” Their idea that I would want to get affiliated is barking. It is a magnificent figment of their imagination. I am not even slightly interested in party politics. The idea of working on behalf of the Conservative Party is ridiculous. They should be doing the job themselves.’
And, quite rightly, given that he had upset or insulted at least half the population on one occasion or another, he rather felt that he wouldn’t be an ideal party spokesman in this age of spin. What about his calls for an upper speed limit of 130mph or his assertion that Korean car-makers eat dogs? ‘No spin doctor would allow me to go on saying things like that, and I simply cannot help myself,’ he said. ‘I will not meet them; I do not have time. I don’t know what is going to keep me bu
sy, but I certainly do not have time to meet them.’ Later, Jeremy complained in his own inimitable fashion that this was the first time a story had been utterly and completely made up about him – and what did it say? That he was the Tories’ unofficial transport spokesman.
Not that Labour had much chance of signing him up, either: Jeremy disliked them even more. ‘I’m not keen on politicians either – people like Prescott,’ he said. ‘No matter how daft my ideas might be, Prescott’s are much, much more stupid. His ideas are just lard. He’s the biggest, fattest waste of space in the known universe. Come the revolution, he’s first against the wall. Because he’s an idiot.’
But he certainly wasn’t resting on his laurels. One aspect of Clarkson that has often been underestimated is quite what a workaholic he is. Because he comes across as so laid-back, it is easy to forget that he writes all his own material, including both his television work and the numerous commitments he now had on newspapers. He is aware of this, and maintains that he’s good value, too. ‘I do work very hard, massively so,’ he said in 1999.
‘There are three columns a week to write, and I have just signed a three-year contract with the BBC. I’m good and cheap. The megabucks deals are for people who are on TV every day. If I’m on a programme, I have to be completely engrossed in every detail. That means I can’t do all the multi-million deals. I just like work and I don’t like mowing the lawn or playing golf.’ That hard-working ethos is a long way from the beer-drinking laddish image Clarkson so often projects.
Nonetheless, he wisely kept his feet on the ground. For all the many criticisms levelled at Clarkson, no one has ever accused him of getting carried away with himself, and he continues to wrong-foot the people who sought to do him down by getting in there first. ‘I still haven’t come to terms with success,’ he said. ‘It’ll probably go away. My hair will fall out, my teeth will go yellow, people will get bored. I already have a big hole in my hair and a huge beer gut.’
As time passed, it seemed that at least one reason why Jeremy had decided to give up Top Gear was that he wanted to step away from his more laddish persona. ‘Everyone thinks of me as being like that, but I’m thirty-nine, with three kids and a house in the country,’ he said. ‘The public perception of me has always been slightly removed from the rather conservative person who actually exists. We wear tweeds and go to drinks parties, and bring up our children properly – all very twee and lovely. But if I couldn’t escape to London I’d go nuts.
‘Country restaurants are terrible. I can’t tell fish from chicken, but I hate all these non-smoking places with their pour-a-sauce-on-it food. We moved to the country for the kids, but Emily can’t stand it. She likes the Harbour Club, the Hurlingham Club, Jermyn Street. Everyone calls her Tara Palmer-Clarkson. The real Tara has promised to take her shopping, and I’m going to hold her to it. I don’t care what the bill will be. It would be worth it just to see Tara taking her up and down Sloane Street, introducing her to all the latest fashions. Emily would think Tara was God.’
And secondly, the chat show had been a success. It was commissioned for a second series, which promptly produced an attack of nerves in its presenter to rival the first one. ‘You should see me backstage beforehand,’ said Jeremy. ‘I am always surprised to discover where I have sweat glands. My mouth is like Niagara, my back like the Atlantic, and I find it horribly nerve-racking. I am useless at interviewing. Ask anyone at Pebble Mill. I am the world’s worst interviewer. Every time I do a programme, my heart goes like a washing machine full of Wellingtons and I think, “Why am I putting myself through this?”’ But put himself through it he did.
You can’t keep a good lad down. For all his attempts to adopt a more grown-up persona, Clarkson couldn’t help himself: he was the walking, talking lad personified. All his tastes were those of the lad, from the car he drove to the music he liked, even when he was showing his more sophisticated and adult side. Asked why he had such a shite taste in music, Jeremy replied, ‘I don’t think I have got a shite taste in music. I like the Doobie Brothers; they’re a very good band. And Steely Dan – no one could say Steely Dan are shite. They are probably the greatest, most talented collection of musicians ever to be brought together. I like Supertramp too. Went to see them at the Albert Hall. Absolutely fantastic! Even if it’s unfashionable to say so. But I don’t give a fuck about that; I’ve never been too bothered about appearing uncool.’
It could have been his life philosophy.
CHAPTER 8
A REGULAR GUY
On the subject of his natural ability to annoy, Clarkson remained unrepentant. Asked why he continued to upset so many people, he replied, ‘You may have a good point. Perhaps we shouldn’t do gays. Those pressure groups are so touchy. But why don’t people suspend their beliefs and find everything funny?’
He really was turned off by homosexuality. It is impossible to escape the conclusion that an awful lot of his likes and dislikes are worked up specifically to amuse, but his distaste for gays was undeniable. Asked if he developed those feelings because of any gay sex at boarding school, he replied, ‘No, I’m probably like that because there wasn’t any. As long as people do it in their bedrooms, fine. But I find it slightly repulsive, well, grotesque actually. Is that homophobia? I suppose it must be, mustn’t it? I just don’t want people doing that sort of thing to come near me. My view has always been that we are put on earth to procreate.’
He was as capable as anyone of making it all into a joke, though. Another bugbear had become homosexual cars, something Clarkson was only too happy to expand on. ‘It’s a car that’s a bit weedy, a bit effeminate,’ he explained. ‘With gay wheels. Obviously, some cars are more homosexual than others. A Fiat X19 is a very homosexual car. It purports to be something it isn’t. It thinks it’s a Ferrari. But it isn’t; it’s queer. Actually, my own Ferrari has been described as homosexual by no less an authority than Steve Coogan. Because it’s got these raspberry ripple seats. Well, it also has a very powerful engine, which discounts it from being homosexual. Mind you, I’d sooner hear it called homosexual than have it called a Fiat.’
Sometimes, however, the fuss caused by what he said was just plain silly. On one occasion, Jeremy remarked that paella was made from rice and whatever happened to be in your bin, and was promptly labelled as being racist on the front page of The Independent. Clarkson himself pointed out that this really was nonsense.
When he wasn’t upsetting gays, Spanish chefs and readers of the Indy, though, he was ruffling feathers elsewhere. It made the news when, writing in Top Gear magazine, Clarkson called for the legalisation of drugs. ‘Eighty per cent of crime is drug-related,’ he argued (with some reason). ‘No one breaks into your house because they need funds for music lessons. They break in because they need smack and crack. And I’m sorry: we’ve got to give it to them. Legalising drugs will bring the price down and cheaper drugs will mean less crime. It’s as simple as that. To argue that we’ll all become junkies is nonsense. You can buy drink, but we’re not all alcoholics.’
That wasn’t all. ‘CCTV has driven teenagers out of the city centres, so they queue outside remote farmhouses, waiting for their turn to defecate on an heirloom,’ he continued in the usual Clarksonesque style. ‘And where are the police? Well, they know you’re only after a crime number for insurance, so they’re about forty miles away, trimming their moustaches to look good on next week’s edition of Police. Stop. Kill. The police spend all their resources on JetRanger helicopters and sophisticated infrared cameras to get action-packed footage of car-azy motorists. And the Crown Prosecution Service? That’s busy sorting out the video rights.’
This had exactly the effect anyone could have predicted: uproar. People were queuing up to denounce this latest outburst. The police were less than delighted: ‘He’s talking through his denims,’ said Ian Westwood, vice-chairman of the Police Federation. ‘Legalising drugs is not the answer and when it was tried it hasn’t worked.’
Nor were anti-drug campai
gners impressed. ‘What a piece of deep thinking – beat crime by legalising it,’ snorted Peter Stoker, director of the National Drug Prevention Association. ‘He should stick to driving instead of getting into a skid over this. Any time I want advice on drugs now I’ll go to a garage, not a medical expert.’ Not for the first time, Clarkson had shown an ability to provoke – and refused point blank to be penitent about it. At any rate, he would have been perfectly justified in saying that he was merely joining in the national debate.
As for his own easy-going persona, he was adamant that it was not an act. ‘I’m the sort of bloke who always gets the last parking meter outside Peter Jones,’ he said. ‘I have never been depressed, never been in a bad mood. I can’t understand why people do it. With women, there are biological reasons, so that is fine. But I know men who can wake up in a bad mood for no reason at all. Why?’
And despite the attempt to step away from his laddish image, Clarkson still liked to put himself forward as a bit of a philistine. ‘I do wish I knew a bit more about stuff, but I have a loathing of any book that doesn’t have a swastika, a gun and a girl in a bikini on the cover,’ he once remarked. Again, though, this was living up to the public image. A rather more thoughtful Clarkson clearly lay behind the scenes, a fact testified to by his success. By this stage in the game, Jeremy had been going strong for nearly a decade: at the time of writing, he’s been at the top for nearly thirty years. In the fickle world of television and entertainment, you don’t maintain a career like that without some considerable nous behind the scenes.