I, however, am proud of being English, in a passive, now-that-you-mention-it sort of way. I like the fact it’s always 57 degrees and drizzling, because this means we spend more time at work and less on the beach. And this, in turn, makes us richer.
I mean, look at France. Yes, they won the World Cup and, yes, they came damned close to taking the ultimate rugby crown, too, but so what? Their idea of a luxury car is a Peugeot 406, and their students have to get jobs in London since there are none in Paris.
And Germany? Think how delighted they must have been when they bought Rover, how they’d put one over on Tommy. But now it turns out their longest-serving chancellor was corrupt and their little acquisition is costing them £600 million a year.
Sure, I’m no great fan of Phoney Tony, but then he’s Scottish. As is his Chancellor, his Lord Chancellor, the Chief Secretary of the Treasury, his Foreign Secretary and the new bloke at Transport. Then there’s Prescott, who’s Welsh, and most of the rest are homosexual. England’s contribution to the Cabinet is Mo Mowlem, and she’s the best of the lot, by far.
And then there’s Richard Curtis, Marco Pierre White and Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. There’s Notting Hill and The Full Monty. I even had some British wine the other night, and it was bloody good.
But best of all, there’s Jaguar. My old XJR has just gone back after two years and 20,000 totally trouble-free miles. No, really, in all that time not a single thing went wrong, whereas life with my Toyota Landcruiser is a nonstop return trip to the dealers.
I’ve looked at all the alternatives. There’s a Jeep Grand Cherokee outside my house right now, but it’s too jiggly. The Mitsubishi Shogun is too brash, and the Merc M-class is just too Guildford. Which means that, some time this year, we shall get either a Discovery or a Range Rover, because they’re still the best 4x4s by far.
And what about sports cars? I know the new Boxster is a fine-handling machine that now goes as quickly as its badge would suggest, and I’m aware that six-cylinder SLKs are about to burst out of the pipeline. But, come on, neither of these is a match for the sheer brutality you get from a TVR. These things are so aggressive that they could almost be Scottish.
But if they’re out of your price range, then it’s off to Mazda for an MX-5, a car that wouldn’t be half as good if it were not for the Lotus Elan.
And anyway, we do still have an empire. It is a small island in the Pacific Ocean, and last time I looked the population was 8000. And all of them, curiously, have Rover 75s.
Appendix
A taste of what Postman Pat has pushed through the Clarkson letterbox over the years.
Dear Jeremy…
‘If Clarkson found Norfolk flat and featureless he is in a minority. Norwich has a shopping centre that is as good as any in the country…’
P.G.
‘I think most Norfolk people wish that Jeremy Clarkson would revert back to his previous job selling Paddington Bears. I do not care for his road testing attitude and even less his patronising and sanctimonious views of Norfolk.’
C.M.
‘I was shocked to learn that the French Gendarmerie is using your photo for training purposes of how an English hooligan looks when he is full of britpiss. You should complain.’
T.V.
‘Clarkson, you are a freak. You scare the children the way you look on television. And it gets worse when you open your mouth. Unbelievable.’
T.V.
‘I am a squaddie on top of a hill near the border of Kosovo and recently saw an article calling you a fashion freak. I don’t agree with what they say and I think people from Norfolk still point at cars as well. But getting to the original point, I think you are the coolest dude to put his foot on planet earth… keep up the good work.’
M.S.
‘I am 83 years old and I’ve been driving every day for a living since 1930. The modern cars you write about today, I wouldn’t have one as a gift. They are rubbish. Who wants to do over 50mph anyway?’
J.J.
‘Jeremy, wonderful how you sorted out those navish foreigners and those poofters, and German ones at that. Your friends urge you to consult a doctor and your enemies hope you don’t.’
T.V.
‘Just fill the magazine with lots of pictures of Jeremy and lots of articles written by him. He’s so gorgeous and sexy I’d like to cover him with chocolate and lick it all off…’
S.H.
‘As part of an English project, we are allowed to write about our favourite celebrity. I chose you because I think you’re funny and get to drive ace vehicles. My friend Max is writing to Tiff Nodel, the one who helps to present Top Gear with you. I think you’re better than him though.’
G.F.
‘Congratulations on your new talk show on the BBC. This is an absolute breakthrough. For the first time a baboon will have his own talk show.’
T.V.
‘I have a large collection of toy cars and trucks. The fact that you said collectors of toy cars are child molesters I found not only highly offensive to thousands of ordinary people, but of such you should be sent to a shrink to see what makes you tick… I wish upon you an eternity stuck in an old car in a convoy of trucks and caravans…’
J.F.
‘If the VC were awarded for stupidity and ignorance you would be one of the first to receive it. Nature seems to have given you a large body but a very small brain…’
B.C.
‘People who commit crimes are dysfunctional. They are alienated, bitter and resentful. So they attack symbols of success, like JC’s Cosworth and he wants to flog them within an inch of their lives, which will make them even more resentful. JC is intelligent, gifted and graced by success. He should not insult our intelligence by uttering such bollocks.’
A.D.
‘Jeremy Clarkson is without doubt the most appallingly sexist person to strut across planet earth but he has a valid, if slightly liberal point of view regarding the treatment of the vehicle villain… I have just had the misfortune of being the victim, for the fourth time, of car crime. These bastards should be staked out naked in the desert… etc.’
G.M.
‘We are out there, the Supertramp music fans. I have all the music and if you would like anything taped please drop me a line.’
P.S. Did you see them at the Albert Hall in 1997?
M.O.
‘Dear Mr Clarkson, You’re a prick.’
Table of Contents
Book Jacket
A riveting book about GM’s quality pussy
Waging war with the motoring rule book
Foreword
Norfolk, twinned with Norfolk
GT90 in a flat spin
Blackpool Rock
Gordon Gekko back in the driving seat
All aboard the veal calf express
Speedy Swede
Drink driving do-gooders are over the limit
Car of the Century
The Sunny sets
Who’s getting their noses in the trough?
Ferrari’s desert storm
Killjoys out culling
Flogging a sawn-off Cosworth
Weather retort
Burning your fingers on hot metal
Speeding towards a pact with the devil
Road rage – you know it makes sense
911 takes on Sega Rally
A laugh a minute with Schumacher in the Mustang
Girlpower
Nissan leads from the rear
Cable TVs and JCBs
Mystic Clarkson’s hopeless F1 predictions
Commercial cobblers
Struck down by a silver bullet in Detroit
You can’t park there – or there
Sermon on Sunday drivers
Aston Martin V8 – rocket-powered rhino
Caravans – A few liberal thoughts
Blind leading the blind: Clarkson feels the heat in Madras
Norfolk’s finest can’t hit the high notes
Car interiors in desperate need
of some Handy Andy work
New MG is a maestro
Darth Blair against the rebel forces
Riviera riff-raff
Objectivity is a fine thing unless the objective is to be first
Kids in cars
Brummie cuisine is not very good
Last bus to Clarksonville
Land of the Brave, Home of the Dim
Only tyrants build good cars
The principality of toilets
Clarkson the rentboy finally picks up a Ferrari
Hate mail and wheeler-dealers
No room for dreamers in the GT40
A rolling Moss gathers up Clarkson
Can’t sleep? Look at a Camry
Big foot down for a ten gallon blat
Car chase in cuckoo-land
Frost-bite and cocktail sausages up the nose
Bursting bladders on Boxing Day
Lies, damn lies and statistics
Radio Ga Ga
Spooked by a Polish spectre
Boxster on the ropes
Concept or reality?
Top Landing Gear – Clarkson in full flight
A fast car is the only life assurance
Rav4 lacks Kiwi polish
Cuddle the cat and battle the Boche
Secret crash testing revealed
Diesel man on the couch
Stuck on the charisma bypass
Travel tips with Jezza Chalmers
Capsized in Capri
Noel’s Le Mans party blows a fuse
The Skyline’s the limit for gameboys on steroids
Henry Ford in stockings and suspenders
NSX – the invisible supercar
Corvette lacks the Right Stuff
Footballers check in to Room 101
Big fun at Top Gun
Traction control loses grip on reality
Driving at the limit
Global Posting systems
Fight for your right to party
Gravy train hits the old buffers
Weird world of Saab Man
Freemasons need coning off
The curse of the Swedish smogasbord
Pin-prick for the Welsh windbag
Showdown at the G6 summit
Spelling out the danger from Brussels
Dog’s dinner from Korea
New Labour, new Jezza
Sad old Surrey
A frightening discovery
Hannibal Hector the Vector
F1 running rings round the viewers
Big cat needs its tummy tickled
Elk test makes monkeys of us
At the core of the Cuore
Last 911 is full of hot air
False economies of scale
Blowing the whistle on Ford and Vauxhall
Hell below decks – Clarkson puts das boot in
Country Life
Beetle mania
Football is an A Class drug
Yank tank flattens Prestbury
Supercar suicide
Bedtime stories with Hans Christian Prescott
Clarkson soils his jeans
Burning rubber with Tara Palmer-Tailslide
Jag sinks its teeth in
Kraut carnage in an Arnage
Absorbing the shock of European Union
Minicabs: the full monty
Supercar crash in Stock Exchange
The school run
Voyage to the bottom of the heap
Van the Man
‘What I actually meant was…’
Mrs Clarkson runs off with a German
Un-cool Britannia
Move over Maureen
Toyota gets its just deserts
Kristin Scott Thomas in bed with the Highway Code
Time to change Gear
Even soya implants can’t make a great car
Lock up your Jags, the Germans are coming
Well carved up by the kindergarten coupé
Fruit or poison?
Left speechless by the car that cuddled me
One car the god of design wants to forget
Hell is the overtaking lane in a 1-litre
Forty motors and buttock fans
Audi’s finest motor just can’t make up its mind
Keep the sports car, drive the price tag
Out of the snake pit, a car with real venom
The Swiss army motor with blunted blades
Perfection is no match for Brian and his shed
Evo’s a vulgar girl, but I love her little sister
At last, a car even I can’t put in a ditch
Trendy cars? They’re not really my bag
Why life on the open road is a real stinker
Cotswold villages and baby seals
Shopping for a car? Just ask Rod Stewart
Gruesome revenge of the beast I tried to kill
Out of control on the political motorway
Old sex machine still beats young fatboy
Whatever happened to the lame ducks?
Bikers are going right round the bend – slowly
Freedom is the right to live fast and die young
A shooting star that takes you to heaven
Congratulations to the Cliff Richard of cars
David Beckham? More like Dave from Peckham
A prancing horse with a double chin
£54,000 for a Honda? That’s out of this world
It’s Mika Hakkinen in a Marks & Spencer suit
Like classic literature, it’s slow and dreary
Prescott’s preposterous bus fixation
Take your filthy, dirty hands off that Alfa
Yes, you can cringe in comfort in a Rover 75
Don’t you hate it when everything works?
The kind of pressure we can do without
Three points and prime time TV
Every small boy needs to dream of hot stuff
Footless and fancy-free? Then buy a Fiat Punto
Now my career has really started to slide
The best £100,000 you’ll ever waste
Styled by Morphy Richards
The terrifying thrill of driving with dinosaurs
Perfect camouflage for Birmingham by night
Another good reason to keep out of London
My favourite cars
Need a winter sun break? Buy a Bora
Driving fast on borrowed time
I’ve seen the future and it looks a mess
Nice motor; shame it can’t turn corners
Stop! All this racket is doing my head in
Looks don’t matter; it’s winning that counts
It’s a simple choice: get a life, or get a diesel
Insecure server?
Ahoy, shipmates, that’s a cheap car ahead
So modern it’s been left behind already
Something to shout about
Appendix