by Gwen Russell
On Friday, 22nd, his eardrums burst from his constant firing, but he continued to take on any tanks he encountered, contenting himself with merely stuffing pieces of field dressing into his ears. Nevertheless, he never ceased to urge his men on and was seen by his driver, Private Grainger, giving a man his last cigarette.
Monday, 25th, saw very heavy fighting in the area occupied by the Lonsdale Force. Self-propelled guns, flame-thrower tanks and infantry took great interest in Cain’s position. By this time there were no more PIATs available to the major. Undeterred, he armed himself with a 2in mortar and added further trophies to his collection, while his brilliant leadership ensured that the South Staffords gave no ground and drove the enemy off in complete disorder. By the end of the battle, Cain had been responsible for the destruction, or disabling of, six tanks as well as a number of self-propelled guns.
As the Division was about to withdraw, some men were encouraged to shave before crossing the river: they were determined to leave looking like British soldiers. Robert found a razor and some water and proceeded to remove a week’s growth of beard from his face, drying himself on his filthy, bloodstained Denison smock. His effort was noticed by Brigadier Hicks who remarked, ‘Well, there’s one officer, at least, who’s shaved.’ Cain happily replied that he had been well brought up.
Major Cain’s conduct throughout was of the highest order, both in terms of personal actions and leadership ability, and for this he was awarded the Victoria Cross, the highest and most prestigious award for gallantry in the face of the enemy that can be awarded to British and Commonwealth forces; he was the only man to receive this medal at Arnhem and live to tell the tale. His citation said of him: ‘His coolness and courage under incessant fire could not be surpassed.’ He is buried in Sussex. There is a chapel in the Hospice at Douglas, on the Isle of Man, that is dedicated to his memory, and also a memorial scholarship at King William’s College. The Staffordshire Regimental Museum holds several items relating to the major, including his Victoria Cross and the Denison smock and maroon beret he wore at Arnhem.
When the programme went out, it caused something of a sensation. Ever since his championship of Brunel, it had been clear that Jeremy was a far more thoughtful and intelligent man than he was usually given credit for, and here was more proof still. This was recent history, intelligently conveyed to the masses, with no horsing around, pontificating or giving in to specific prejudices. It was, to put it another way, grown-up television, aimed at a very different audience from the lads who doted on Top Gear – although, because of Jeremy’s involvement, it would have attracted them too.
And in true theatrical style, Clarkson held one bit of information until the end, for it was only then that he revealed that he was married to Major Cain’s daughter, Francie – and that she had not known that her father, who died in 1978, had received the award. It had never occurred to him to tell her and it was only because her husband uncovered the story that Francie discovered what a hero her father had been. It is one of the most successful pieces of broadcasting that Clarkson has done to date.
Of course, Clarkson maintained plenty of other interests, among them a new show called MPH ’03, billed as a motor show with a difference. ‘Motor shows are pretty much dead in this country,’ said Jeremy, explaining the rationale. ‘The notion of turning up and mooching around in a huge crowd, and occasionally catching a glimpse of a wheel of a car you could see outside anyway seems a bit stupid. MPH ’03 is where you can look at the more exciting cars on stands, but then there’s a proper indoor racetrack to go in, sit down and watch cars going quickly. Cars are supposed to move, that’s what they’re meant to do. It’s the future of motor shows. If we get round without a crash a day, I’ll be astonished.
‘I thought people would be interested in information, but no one gives a damn. Driving is supposed to be fun. Cars are a symbol of our release, our freedom, so enjoy them. Stop twittering on about the damage they do to the environment, and speed limits.’
And he was good-natured enough to appear on a special charity version of the BBC’s What Not To Wear. Rather unusually, stylish presenters Trinny Woodall and Susannah Constantine actually appeared to have met their match: ‘You look like you should be selling vegetables in a market,’ they snapped, before being informed by Jeremy that, actually, he too hated the jeans-and-geography-teacher look. But he fought back. ‘I’m not wearing a blue suit and a purple shirt,’ he announced, before adding that it made him look like a photocopier salesman. ‘I’ve never worn a jumper in my life,’ he continued. ‘People who wear jumpers are bullied.’
Indeed, on this occasion, the girls certainly weren’t getting away with pushing their subject around. ‘When I look at this wardrobe, I feel …’ Trinny began. ‘Moist?’ Clarkson helpfully interjected. He then went on, ‘I know this programme’s all kind of … cushions … but I’m a man – I like fighter jets!’ This led to another bout of national goodwill towards Clarkson: not only had he managed to take on two of the sharpest tongues in television and hold his own, but he had also come across as self-deprecating and modest. It was that old trick again – do yourself down before anyone else has the chance to. It works every time.
In fact, Jeremy thoroughly enjoyed the experience, no matter what he said. He certainly wouldn’t let on, though. ‘It was four days of utter abject misery,’ he sighed. ‘Every time I tried to go into a Bang & Olufsen shop, they’d drag me back out again. Trinny and Susannah were actually very sweet.’ As to whether the experience made him want to be better dressed – well, no, not really. Asked if he thought he was uncool, Jeremy replied, ‘No, I know I am, I just don’t care; I live in the middle of the countryside. So long as you can’t see my genitals, I consider myself to be well-dressed.’ It was precisely the attitude you would expect from him.
Not that he was letting up on the aggro in other ways. On one of his favourite subjects – smoking – he was as cutting as ever, giving, as would be expected, very short shrift to suggestions that smokers should pay for their own health care. ‘Smokers pay £19,000 a minute to the Exchequer and that’s enough to pay for the whole police force,’ he snapped. ‘Or to put it another way, every £1 we cost the National Health Service, we give it £3.60. Please don’t encourage the state to dictate how I live my life.’
He was also capable of ruffling feathers among the rural community. A newly converted country dweller Clarkson may have been, but that didn’t stop him from expressing irritation about some country-dwelling habits. He caused yet another furore when he complained of the ‘din’ caused by church bell ringers, which stopped him from being able to have a Sunday lie-in. ‘[There are] bell ringers creeping out of their houses before dawn on Sunday mornings and using three tons of solid brass to wake us all up,’ was his own, inimitable way of putting it.
This was a complaint that went down very badly with the people of Castor, a little village near Peterborough. It was home to none other than Jeremy’s sister Joanna, and the villagers were sure that he was referring to the bells of St Kyneburgha’s, the local church. Indeed, so indignant were they that one of the bell ringers, Tony Evans, felt moved to write to the Parish News. ‘Clarkson promotes and enthuses over noisy, air polluting vehicles that race around our overcrowded country lanes and he is complaining about a custom that goes back over 1,000 years,’ he snapped. ‘I understand that he occasionally spends a weekend in Castor.’
Fellow parishioner Jenny Hammond was equally upset. ‘Who does he think he is?’ she asked. ‘I’m furious he thinks he can come here and say these things. But I laughed when I read the piece in the parish magazine.’
The vicar, the Revd. William Burke, was more restrained. ‘I think Mr Clarkson’s comments were uncalled for, but he’s entitled to his view,’ he said. ‘We will just have to learn to live and let live.’
But was he writing about the village at all? It is a mark of Clarkson’s impact upon his readers that so many take so much so personally when it might actually have had nothing
to do with them in the first place. Clarkson’s sister, Joanna, was adamant that this was the case. ‘Jeremy hasn’t been here for a whole weekend and I don’t think he’s ever heard the bells,’ she protested. ‘He lives in rural Gloucestershire, so he could have been writing about there.’
That episode, small as it was, is actually a key to Jeremy’s success. In whatever he says or does, he somehow manages to establish a direct connection with the viewer or reader, which makes it appear that a one-on-one conversation is going on. That is why so many people get so intensely het up about his views. Although they might know on an intellectual level that Jeremy was pontificating in general, on an emotional level they felt he was talking directly to them. Thus they took what he was saying as a personal attack and responded in kind. On the other hand, when the reader or viewer agreed with him, they tended to feel an especially strong connection, which is why his fans can be so passionately in favour of his views and sympathetic to his irreverence and outspoken nature. It is as if he is their personal friend and champion in saying to the rest of the world what they themselves believe.
Indeed, he had actually become quite an advertisement for the joys of country living. The family had dogs, a range of cars, of course, and an exceptionally agreeable lifestyle. Clarkson knew it, too. ‘Only last week I was at my children’s sports day, and as I lay in the long grass by the river drinking pink champagne and chatting with other media parents, I remember thinking, “I love being middle class,”’ he said. It was another quintessentially English scene that Clarkson adored being a part of.
Indeed, so established as part of the great and good had he become that there was even talk of him presenting a BBC documentary about Prince Charles. ‘It’s still very much in its early stages,’ said a cautious BBC spokeswoman when the news emerged. ‘Nothing is definite. It has not even been given the green light.’ The idea was that the programme would look at Charles’s work rather than his private life, and would in itself be a part of the Prince’s search for a meaningful role for the modern monarchy.
‘Royalty is highly contested in England and he cannot be immune to the fact that many people do not agree with the concept,’ said Leon Krier, who had known the Prince for twenty years and had worked as his architectural advisor. ‘He saw he could do more than take part in ceremonies, open buildings and smile. He saw he could have an influence and constitutional monarchy is justified and legitimised by his very attitudes. While politicians have a very short-term agenda, he can do things that take a generation to be proved right.’
Clarence House was circumspect. ‘We continually look at ways in which to explain and illustrate the Prince of Wales’ work and role, and that of his organisations and charities,’ a spokesman said. Clarkson himself would not be drawn on his views.
And there were other aspects of his life, too. It is not often appreciated that both Clarksons do a fair bit of work for charity, particularly in their area of the Cotswolds. Home life was also very settled, not least because, for all his opinionated image, Clarkson was actually extremely easy to live with. There was only the odd blip, as Francie once revealed, shortly after that notorious garden ornament had finally been removed.
‘The wackiest thing he ever brought home was a jet fighter, which ended up in our garden,’ she said. ‘Jeremy had always wanted a plane as a garden ornament. Before I knew it, it was being craned in. He’s actually very easy to live with. He doesn’t shout and rage. If something pisses him off, he just says it and gets it sorted. He does have an opinion on most topics, but he just says things that people think but don’t dare say. He’s a great dad and he tears around the paddock teaching the children to drive.’
His children certainly brought out Clarkson’s best side. He loved being a father and was good at it, too, as Francie had previously acknowledged. ‘Jeremy is a brilliant, fun-loving father,’ she said. ‘I put this down to the Peter Pan principle, which enables him to build dens out of furniture and turn bath time into a scene from The Poseidon Adventure. But as a hands-on man, he’s not so hot. I am sure he could do it, but he always seems to be in another country – and preferably another continent – wherever there’s a whiff of nappy to be changed.’
It rather appeared that at home, at least, it was Francie who ruled the roost – even when it came to deciding which car the family would have. ‘You might imagine that being married to the country’s most opinionated motor writer, I would have little influence over car matters in our household,’ she once wrote in the BBC’s Parenting magazine. ‘The reality is that I spend more time in our school-run car (a Volvo XC90) in a week than he spends in his own car in a month. And that lands me with the job of deciding which car we have.’
And the highly successful Jeremy and Adrian partnership continued. Both would routinely rope the other in to join in with whatever project they were working on, as, for example, when Gill took Clarkson to review a restaurant called Café Grand Prix in London’s Berkeley Square. ‘What would be the point of knowing Jeremy Clarkson (actually, what is the point?) if you couldn’t take him to a dining room devoted to carbon monoxide and driving in circles,’ he wrote.
And with that there followed the usual laddish jokes at one another’s expense. Relating how they started off in the bar, which was decorated with photographs of famous racing drivers, Gill rather waspishly wrote, ‘Jeremy walked round it squeaking, “Ooh look, here’s Andy Di Pandyo, Daffy Di Duckyo and Tommy Di Jerryo, who were probably the …” and, in the gap while he prepared to drop a gear and tell us what they probably were, we escaped upstairs to the restaurant.’ Gill was the perfect sparring partner for Clarkson: equally prepared to cause upset, equally dismissive of anything he didn’t like, and prepared to poke fun not only at his friend but also at himself.
Back at the day job – Top Gear – Jeremy was thoroughly enjoying himself. One reason why he stuck with the programme for so long was that he clearly loved the fun involved in making it, and the interplay with his fellow presenters. Asked once what was the most fun he had had while driving a car, he replied, ‘This morning came damn close, in the Noble with Richard Hammond behind me in a Morgan trying to keep up. That was as funny a thing as I’ve seen in a very long time. He was a speck in my rear-view mirror.’ Of course, there was a genuine chemistry between all the presenters: they enjoyed one another’s company and they enjoyed teasing each other too. The show was a happy one to work on, although it was not exactly a family atmosphere – more a group of men bonding over machines.
Clarkson was still managing to cause trouble in sleepy English villages wherever he went, although the next upset was inadvertent. It was, however, the latest in a series of mishaps: Jeremy had recently beached a £120,000 Bentley at Budleigh Salterton, Devon, while filming for Top Gear and, before that, while making one of his No Limits videos, had driven a Ford RS200, the world’s fastest production car, into a potato field in Fife. Now Top Gear had been staging a running gag: it was testing the durability of a Toyota pick-up truck. To this end, it was, among much else, submerged in the waves at Burnham-on-Sea in Somerset and, ultimately, perched on the top of a tower block before being dynamited. It made for good television and the viewers enjoyed it.
But, as one of the tests, it was driven into a chestnut tree in the little village of Churchill, north Somerset. The tree, rather unfortunately, was standing in the village graveyard. More unfortunately yet, while the Toyota proved its worth and escaped the encounter undamaged, the same could not be said for the tree, which was left with a gaping hole in the middle. This did not amuse the local villagers, and neither did the fact that the Top Gear team left without telling them about the damage improve matters. It was only when a villager saw the segment being broadcast that everyone finally worked out what had really happened to the tree.
‘It was very mysterious and annoying,’ said Pam Millward, deputy chairwoman of the council. ‘The villagers think it’s a bit of a cheek, just to come along and deliberately ram into a tree and drive away. At firs
t, the BBC claimed they could not ask permission from anybody as it was such an isolated spot. But there is a notice nearby with names and contact details of myself and the vicar, so they can’t have looked very hard. Top Gear is not my choice of viewing, anyway, but I do not think Mr Clarkson will be doing anything like this again.’
There was massive embarrassment at the BBC. For a start, it could not be proven that Clarkson was actually the person behind the wheel of the car, but it was certainly a prank associated with him, something that probably strengthened the locals’ complaints. Next, the BBC felt compelled both to apologise and to pay £250 in compensation. ‘Top Gear has unreservedly apologised to the parish council for driving the pick-up into the tree,’ said a spokeswoman. ‘In acknowledgement of this, we have sent the parish council compensation – a donation for them to use as appropriate.’ The council announced that it would go towards a new children’s recreation ground.
It was not Top Gear’s finest hour, nor that of the BBC. It was, however, so typical of the programme to go driving into trees, the reasoning went, that it was almost to be expected. And the BBC coughed up in the end and gave the village something to put the damage right. Clarkson himself regretted nothing. ‘The parish council is funded by central government, which is funded by me, so it’s my tree,’ he said. ‘Anyway, there was no damage.’