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Thursday, 1 December 2011

Jeremy meet Alf
Hard to tell the difference
Has Jeremy Clarkson turned into Alf Garnett? Apart from the worrying perm I think said transformation is almost complete thanks to his stupendous views on the elimination of nurses and various other public servants. 
Watching Clarkson spew bollocks is like watching black people being dragged behind Chevies by KKK maniacs wielding flaming torches. Really, he's one flux capacitor away from inhabiting the 70s all over again (and that includes his horrific fashion sense). Clarkson, apart from desperately wanting you to shut up I'd also love it if you set fire to your knacker-grabbing jeans. You lumber about my telly screen like the Cerne Abbas Giant, man. I've seen more of your wedding vegetables than I have of Conjugal Kraken's and that's one fuck of a high price to pay for a Sunday night car review I can tell you.
Problem with Clarkson is that he's starting to parody himself, much like Nigella Lawson blow-jobbing spare ribs and Jeremy Vine playing his Jeremy Paxman mini-me. Clarkson thinks he's being controversial, speaking for the nation, daring to say the unsayable, the non-PC stuff that he thinks the rest of us are too fearful to spout. Ironically, though, this has just made him predictable. Don't know about you but I expect him to babble complete and utter fucking rubbish and, like a dog performing for a choc drop, that's exactly what he does. 
Aye, Clarkson was talking through his piles with these latest Daily Mail-like comments of his but what did you expect? He presents a show about cars which is aimed squarely at haw-hawing blokes (not men, blokes). He raves about the sponginess of clutches and the roar of engines, salivates at the overpriced pieces of engineering that get you from A to B. Were you really waiting for him to review his favourite piece of prose by Dostoyevsky or host an insightful debate into the Arab Spring? No, neither was I. Which is why his kicking about of the public sector is so obviously the next stage in his rapid regression. 
So don't froth over Clarkson. Just sit back, grab a bag of popcorn and prepare to watch him fuck up over and over again until that flux capacitor whisks him back to the 70s and gives us all some peace and frigging quiet.


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