Thursday 27 October 2011


 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
signed, Shirley Clarkson, (Mrs)


yardarm said...

Glad to see you back, Mr I. Is Clarkson really a part of the Chipping Bollocks set or do they just flip him a guinea for parking their cars ?

a young Anglo-Irish catholic said...

Clarkson's ability to sell that old schtick - the controversial friend at those endlessly po-faced minor public school diner parties just of Clapham Common or Fulham or some grim SW dump - never ceases to maze me.

Bringing the little league ho-ray experience to the wider country. How did that work?

george said...

Yes good to see you back as well Mr I.
In any other country Clarkson would be ostracised and given a good kicking. He loved to slag off Vauxhall cars and piss on thousands of workers in the UK who relied on Vauxhall for work. Even if Vauxhall were shit, and I don't think they were, what right does a UK public sector taxpayer funded wanker have to undermine private sector UK manufacturing ?Total cunt of the first order he is. And his show is fucking wank as well. The sad overpaid cunt.

Forgotten but not Gone said...

Well, this is nice, Ishmael has returned. Have you been unwell, on holiday in the High Jocklands, or simply unable to say anything about the parlous state of our country? I despair - Gordon Brown was an easy enough target, with his lower middle class Scotch background, his unpleasant personal habits and his middle-aged marriage, but one felt that the chap's heart was in the right place. Not a multi-millionaire with an over-privileged education and an extensive stately home. Not a man at war with the citizenry, the disabled, the economically disadvantaged etc etc. Now that he's gone, and almost forgotten, like myself, oh would that he were here again instead of the gang of nicely-suited three.
I see that Clarkson is still distressing you.

call me ishmael said...

Something like that, mr gbnf, something like faecal asphyxiation, drowning in shit, like everybody.

Clarkson is, I guess, for all those reasons above and countless others, more of a metaphor of transnational Ruin than a personality, he and his audience, alike, feasting on each others noxious banality whilst the gangsters are kicking our doors in.

TopGear, it's like one of those daisy chains of tongues and arseholes and infinitely sequential embuggerments so vividly imagined by his Grace, le Maquis de Sade. Doncha just love the Murdochisation of the BBC?

Vauxhall workers, yes, not fit to lick the great man's boots.

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Dick the Prick said...

The thing that has always fucked me off about Clarkson is that the cunt is from Doncaster and whilst we all can have a fucking good belly laugh taking the piss out of Donny there are rules yer know. It's like taking the piss out of Jocks or Welsh or something - show some respect whilst having a laugh. But this cunt takes the piss out of Yaaarkkshyre and, well, what the fuck is that about?

Anywho, fuck him and his Chipping fucking Norton set. If people want twee there can pop a ribbon on a kitten but living in some anodyne, picture postcard plastic St Mary fucking Mead just ain't my thing; give me the South Riding any day. Cunt.

call me ishmael said...

Aye, mr anonymous, three hundred good targets for bile at the least and a good hanging at worst, but also the customary aversion to recognising that Scotland's enemies are actually the same as everyone else's enemies, nationalism has some attractions but it'd be a long way down my list, especially when it's current greatest emblem is Donald McTrump.

The Cotswolds are nice, mr dtp, gentle hills, honey sandstone houses, softer, different, warmer than Yorkshire. It's just the people, mainly incomers, like Clarkson, who let the area down. All mouth and trousers; all fur coat and no knickers and sixty- grand Range Rovers.