A disconsolate Clarkson, pictured comfort eating, the horrible fucking bastard.
Popular loudmouth fatso, Mr Jeremy Clarkson, today abandoned his legal attempts to keep secret his love life, I mean sex life. It's no good, moaned the worthless, over-exposed, over-paid, over-rated lump of shit, you might think that I'd been having affairs with all sorts of unlikely loony bints, like my producer and my first wife and my second wife, the dwarfy one; you might think that I ran about between lovers so fast that my hair caught fire, that no sooner had I done a handbrake turn on Jemima Wotsername, that I'd be burning some rubber with my ex-wife before screeching home sideways to my current wife and children and faffing about with her column-mounted gear paddles, pausing only to let little Richie Hammond lick my tailpipe for me. But you'd be wrong.
No, the truth is that I've only ever had one love, myself; I simply cannot help it, I adore myself. I am the man I most want to touch, to see, to be with. David Cameron, James Murdoch.... they're alright, but they're just mates, when you're rich, like me, you need rich mates, nothing like getting together with other rich guys and mocking the poor - you know, those morons who stand around in my studio, applauding cars they'll not even get to sit in, much less drive, never mind own - but it's not the same as love I feel for myself; I am the Hispano-Suiza, the E-Type, the GT40 of men, just look at my lines,
and hear my throaty roar. And the injunction, well that was just a way to keep that knowledge private. But you know, there comes a time in your life that you have to face up to the fact that you're just an empty-headed exhibitionist, flogging a dead horse of boyish, faux rebellion to an audience of equally empty headed boymen - and the odd silly tart. Uncompromising and fiercely opinionated, they call me, those that don't call me a fat, spoiled, indolent, bullying, racist fuckpig. But they're all wrong. I'm just a helpless, old-fashioned narcissist.
I've done the injunction thing, now, kept me in the gossip pages for ages, which is the main thing, nobody reads my column in the Times anymore, or anything else in it, for that matter, and TopGear just goes from bad to worse, it's like the Wacky Races, only not funny. Next week Hammond and me and that other cunt are going to drive our cars to the top of Mt., Everest , set fire to them and throw them off. And I'll be in the studio talking to Ronnie Wood and some other nonces about how brilliant they are. And I am. Oh, and I'll probably be saying something ballsachingly funny about Birmingham. It's what I do.And it's why people love me. Only not as much as I do.
a reader writes: I'd just liike to say that whatever Mr Smith says, Jeremy Clarkson has given me a great deal of pleasure over the years, it's all good, clean fun, what he and the boys do, and it earns the BBC a lot of money, I can tell you. So let's have a bit less of the sarcastic moaning Mr Smith and instead, a word of praise or two for a fine British institution,