IS THIS MAN GAY?
POUTING FOR THE CAMERA.
Some say that he is our most popular broadcaster ever, others that he is an arsehole who personifies and is instrumental in the coarsening of our national life and its epidemic of
xenophobia as politics,
N-WORDS OUT!
N-WORDS OUT!
N-WORDS OUT!
knuckle-head stupidity as home-spun wisdom and cruelty as entertainment.
All we know is that like so many other homosexuals,
he's called Jeremy,
just like Jeremy Thorpe.
Some say he loves his mother,
rather too much,
bringing her on his programmes, endlessly talking about her,
whilst unable, himself,
to conduct a normal marriage.
bringing her on his programmes, endlessly talking about her,
whilst unable, himself,
to conduct a normal marriage.
All we know is that this is
just like Jeremy Thorpe did.
just like Jeremy Thorpe did.
Some say that he is robustly, blokeishly heterosexual, always ready, perhaps too ready, to drool over some tits-out Hollywood slapper.
All we know is that he clings tenaciously to effeminate younger men from the lower orders,
taking them camping
and staying with them in hotels
taking them camping
and staying with them in hotels
just like Jeremy Thorpe did.
And William Hague.
And William Hague.
Some say his mummy sent him to public school,
all we know is that that's just like Jeremy Thorpe's mummy did.
Some say that Clarkson insists on presenting Top Gear's Queer In A Reasonably Priced Car, himself, so's he can flirt with famous showbiz fairies and degenerates (i.e. all of them).
Jeremy flirting with young bride-to-be, Steven Fag.
being manly with some boy soprano
and drooling over this old degenerate.
All we know is that he is rather too raucously sexist with the minority of female guests but turns all temptressy and coquettish with famous queers. Like Tom Cruise. D'ya wanna know yer lap time? Do you? Do you really?
Playful and teasing.
This is just like what Jeremy Thorpe would've done.
and drooling over this old degenerate.
All we know is that he is rather too raucously sexist with the minority of female guests but turns all temptressy and coquettish with famous queers. Like Tom Cruise. D'ya wanna know yer lap time? Do you? Do you really?
Playful and teasing.
This is just like what Jeremy Thorpe would've done.
Some say he works at the PBC Centre For Excellence In Child Buggery Studies.
All we know is that he also hangs around powerful MediaMinsterite trash, like this, vainly hoping to be taken seriously,
Murdoch employees at the works do.
All we know is that he also hangs around powerful MediaMinsterite trash, like this, vainly hoping to be taken seriously,
Murdoch employees at the works do.
Yes, alright then, you can drive us there.
But you'll have to wait in the car.
More Murdoch employees at the works do.
But you'll have to wait in the car.
More Murdoch employees at the works do.
Jeremy grovelling to Fleet Street filth.
Just like Jeremy Thorpe did.
Just like Jeremy Thorpe did.
Some say that Clarkson's fellow PBC Jeremysexuals, Mr Jeremy Vine, Mr Jeremy Hardy, Mr Jeremy Kyle and Mr Jeremy Paxman all think that he's a jolly good Jeremy fellow, a member of the broadcasting Clan Jeremy.
All we know is that when we asked them they all said:
Jeremy Clarkson?
You must be fucking joking;
He's another fucking Jeremy Thorpe,
he is, listeners.
Only he's kinda scruffier, smellier and not as clever.
Nowhere fucking near.
Tomorrow in the Sun we expose London's Mayor.
Or should it be mayoress???!!!
BoJo the Homo.
King Boris of London appearing on Top Queer.
Is he another one, showily laddish outside but another public school brown-hatter inside?
Don't miss the Sun, tomorrow, for all your Top Queer news.
Elsewhere, in TeeVee News, famous blogger, Ishmael Smith, asks: Why aren't there any car shows on telly, proper car shows, about proper cars. I love cars, why aren't there any programmes about cars? Why is there only this Clarkson shit, this fat, stupid, fag cunt gobbing-off about impossible, million pound deathtraps, one going half-a-second faster than another and giggling nigger-nigger-nigger all the time, up his sleeve, like a fucking half-wit? Cars, that's what we want, not racist panto.
All we know is that when we asked them they all said:
You must be fucking joking;
He's another fucking Jeremy Thorpe,
he is, listeners.
Only he's kinda scruffier, smellier and not as clever.
Nowhere fucking near.
Tomorrow in the Sun we expose London's Mayor.
Or should it be mayoress???!!!
BoJo the Homo.
Is he another one, showily laddish outside but another public school brown-hatter inside?
Don't miss the Sun, tomorrow, for all your Top Queer news.
Elsewhere, in TeeVee News, famous blogger, Ishmael Smith, asks: Why aren't there any car shows on telly, proper car shows, about proper cars. I love cars, why aren't there any programmes about cars? Why is there only this Clarkson shit, this fat, stupid, fag cunt gobbing-off about impossible, million pound deathtraps, one going half-a-second faster than another and giggling nigger-nigger-nigger all the time, up his sleeve, like a fucking half-wit? Cars, that's what we want, not racist panto.
20 comments:
Undoubtedly he's what we used to call a "tube", but one of such magnitude that his alleged fruitistical leanings are dwarfed to irrelevancy by everything else.
- richard
He is certainly one of the viler creations of popular culture, Clarkson, and seemingly effortlessly he blocks the production of more serious and informative shows about the car, a thing often of beauty and wonder, at home and abroad. He's a cunt and so are his producers.
I was watching Stormont, the other day; it is always so deadly serious, compared with Westminster - I guess its members know that if they say too much of the wrong thing it won't be Guido von Fawkes they'll have to deal with or Toilets Maguire but something much, much worse. But I watched Peter Robinson with interest, he of the thousand neckties, and wondered at his gall; his mrs last heard from on suicide watch after screwing a young man and fiddling a government grant for him and he having lost his National UK seat, yet there he was, a-sneering and a-snarling, as though his dignity was totally intact; a strange Hothouse, Stormont, germinating strange growths.
He used to be a "good turn" but he has been on far too long.
he is the part of the bbc propogander machine designed to divert the workers away from thinking seriously about the desperate situation most people find themselves in.They will never attain the false world of excitement , money, and glamour the programe projects.the man wants shafting with a pineapple.
And where do they find that audience of stiffs from, standing there, clapping cars? It is fucking disgusting, all of it, even the idea of some ponce celebrity noncing fuckpig,like Ronnie Wood, demeaning himself in a poor man's car, he's like a thick version of Farage, Clarkson. And his fluffers, they're as bad, I hope their arses fall out and they trip on their intestines and everybody laughs as they slither around in their own guts.
I remember Top Gear when it first started, what seems like a thousand years ago now. In those days it was a fairly decent motoring magazine show. Even Clarkson was a reasonably promising motoring correspondent back in those days. However pursuit of celebrity status drew it into the domain of Ruin which has engulfed so much of our culture, society and politics.
By the way, a nice little parody of 'Top Queer' performed by the cast of 'Rainbow' right here:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMHhy-mGndI
Just Google 'Rainbow does Top Gear' if the link doesn't work and it will come right up. Worth watching just to see Zippy snorting a line of coke...
Sorry - the above was mine - got a bit trigger happy and forgot to identify myself.
Cotswolds cunts all of them, Stewart Lee does a good job on the little helper Hammond and notes the bullying, humourless stupidity of these oafs. I bet Cameron secretly wants to be Clarkson or maybe it's the other way round.
I don't pay much attention to Stormont. There are but few of the 100 plus MPs (why so many? Hitler ran Poland via three gauleiters) who appear to be normal. Robinson is rumoured to slap the bake off his missis now and again. But it's collectively our fault, the whole set-up. As above so below and vice versa.
-richard
Many years ago I unwittingly attended a pilot tv quiz show. That's what you get for accepting free coach trips to London.
The hangar they recorded it in was cavernous and freezing. The 'warm-up' man was never so mis-named. By half time we were begging to be let out as not only were we dying, but the so was the show, on its arse. The poor comic who had to keep us amused while the last rites were mumbled over the production, said he couldn't let us out as half of us would run screaming and not come back. How right he was.
It was only the fact that I was not quite sure where we were on some God-forsaken industrial estate, that I didn't yell 'False Imprisonment' and storm the doors. As it was, I thought my chances of survival were better by sitting tight and cannibalising Graeme Garden if absolutely necessary. He's a bit stringy but better than nothing.
Now you know how they find the stiffs.
Lovely.
It's the ones who traipse around looking at horrid over-priced houses who get me, gonna put their own stamp on this or that micro-cottage; just as long as there's an outbuilding where Alexander can do his art and enough space for Sonia's dinner parties.
There is a website called Be On A Show where you can sign-up to be a discerning househunter, just one who needs the help of two failed drama students to find the hole in their arses.
I suppose they'd see appearing on TopGear as having made the big time.
I went looking for that website and there now appears to be a show dedicated to incest. They want people to play 'Keep It In The Family".
Holy mackerel, Mr Ishmael, things are getting worse every moment.
Dunno why people should be imprisoned within a restrictive, patriarchal Judaeo-Christian paradigm and censor their feelings, just because their parents fucked each other, do you? Love is love, not fade away.
The ginger bitch is back where she belongs:
http://www.smh.com.au/business/world-business/rebekah-brooks-to-return-to-news-corp-20150302-13sk6s.html
I like Clarkson.
I don't lament the demise of 'serious' motoring programs simply because what is the point of taking driving around the UK's roads at a top speed of 70mph or 30mph in a built up area as anything more than a fucking chore. Won't make me any happier to do it in a car capable of 200mph. Nope. Don't give a shit. Might as well see some lads who should know better fucking about on an airstrip.
As far as I'm concerned he's got the best job in the world. He gets to goof off all over the world on self-inspired missions. In that respect he's no better or worse than Alan Whicker or David Attenborough who has clearly made a career out of pointing to the map and then reverse engineering an excuse to travel there.
Who wouldn't want to drive across Africa? Or South America. Or the Middle East (when they're not having a holy war)? I'd love to do shit like that and get paid for it.
Clarkson does. And good luck to him.
He's just appealing to the young kid in all of us. Maybe we should aspire to be more than young kids but, d'you know what, fuck it. There's enough posturing pricks pretending to be adults wandering about the TV channels and halls of power and look at the utter clusterfuck they manage to make of everything. A bit of irreverent escapism is just what the doctor ordered.
With the added bonus that it drives the likes of Toynbee and those other earnest I-know-better-than-you types into fits of self-righteous, terribly grown-up, anger. Fuck 'em. Posturing pricks.
The triumviate works like most successful sit com products: Hammond is the Felicity Kendal character, James May is the daddy, probably played by Michael Gambon, and Clarkson is their bear-child determined to be in the lime-light.
I don't know how charming this format is likely to remain as they accellerate towards old age. Last of the Summer Whine.
I have quite a lot of time for May because he is a proper techie, prepared to build miles of model railway track and able to explain why that is worthwhile.
May also used to write a decent motoring page in the Filth-O-Graph but even if Albert Einstein was playing Widow Twanky, it'd still be pantomime and that is what Top Gear is. As I said, I love cars and I'd love to see a car show, instead of a farce or, as you say, a sit-com, starring Bugatti and Mercedes, Ferrari and Porsche. there are car-refurb shows on some of the alien channels but the presenters are worse than Jezza and the boys, although I doubt thay hail from the Cotswolds.
You sherrins, i expect you'll grow out of it, mr jgm2
If it was as you say it is, pure escapism, for the feeble-minded, then it could and should be done a good deal more skilfully and imaginatively than it is by this trio and their producers - dull, repetitive, childish, fuck me, Jesus, the patients in the old Rubery Hill Hospital could have made a more entertaining show than these fucking dullards, presenting Crackerjack would be too much of a challenge for them.
And there is a need for an intelligent car show, the rate of change and techno improvement is dazzling. Like you,I rarely spend more than three grand on a car but I currently also have a leased Volvo V40 as novel, to me, as the Bugatti is to James May - interesting that they let May and not Fat Tory oaf,Jezza, do the speed test in the SuperVeyron - and it and many others are worth a show to themselves
And then there's the nauseating fellating of some worthless shithead celebrity. And the Stig. Worse than the fucking Archers, it is, endless, repetitivd tedium. No,, you're wrong. 'Sbad for the national health, Top Gear. And fuck Africa. Great North Road, that's the place for a Christian pilgrim, dodging the Filth and the cameras.
'You sherrins, i expect you'll grow out of it, mr jgm2'
Perhaps. But I'm leaving it a bit late.
I have been thinking, mr jgm2, of what you said about the Headmaster, having flown Mosquitoes in WW2. I didn't know that. Too late to reevaluate him but good to know, anyway. I was taught by a VC. in primary school, wish I'd understood that a bit better. He was a lovely man, though, the opposite of the pompous Cholmondeley, no flashy suits for him, just a chalky sports jacket, its pockets filled with patience.
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