Not Even Irish
Hugo Rifkind has some fun with his Times column in which he imagines a week in the life of Jeremy Clarkson.
My week: Jeremy Clarkson*
Top Gear's Jeremy Clarkson - Rex Features
Monday
“I can’t believe this is still going on,” I say to my lawyer. “It’s just ridiculous. It’s a lynch mob. He was only a producer. Haven’t you ever punched a producer?”
“I don’t have a producer,” says my lawyer.
“Well you should get one,” I say, “and punch him. The only people who don’t punch producers are limp-wristed . . .”
“Stop it,” says the lawyer.
“. . . mincing . . .” I say.
“Anyway,” he says. “I don’t think it’s the punch. It’s the abusive language.”
“Abusive?” I say. “Abusive? How can it be abusive to call somebody Irish?”
My lawyer just shrugs.
“Unless they aren’t Irish,” I add, thinking about it properly. “Because then it obviously would be.”
Tuesday
The Prime Minister calls. Don’t tell anybody, but we actually get on quite well. I think it’s because we’re both so anti-establishment.
“Mate,” he says. “What a fuss! So you punched an underling? Big deal. I punch Nick all the time.”
“And he’s not even Irish,” I say.
“No,” agrees Cameron.
Wednesday
I’m meeting with Hammond and May. Best mates in the world. Hammond says they’ve both told the BBC that if I get the boot, they’ll walk, too.
“Bloody love you, Hammond,” I say.
“I’m May,” he says.
Then the other one says he’s been hearing about a replacement.
“Fry,” he says. “Sir Elton. Toksvig.”
“Shoot me in the face,” I say. “Could anything be worse?”
“Shami Chakrabarti,” says May.
“Bloody love you, May,” I say.
“I’m Hammond,” he says.
Thursday
Today I am being investigated by the BBC. And I am bloody furious. Because a senior executive has compared me to Jimmy Savile.
“It’s just not acceptable,” says my lawyer, who is delighted.
The BBC human resources guy says we have to understand the context.
“Bugger the context,” I say.
“Don’t hit him,” says my lawyer.
“How is that better” I say, “than me saying foreign taxi drivers smell of sick?”
“Yeah!” says my lawyer. “Sorry, what?”
“It was in the papers this morning,” says the BBC guy.
“You have to tell me these things,” says my lawyer.
“But they do,” I say.
Friday
I’m having a pub lunch with Hammond and May. My lawyer calls.
“Is this true?” he says. “Did you really tell a room full of your fans you were getting sacked last night?”
“It was a joke,” I say. “These people. They’re worse than Asians.”
My lawyer says I really need to stop talking like this. Particularly as a petition signed by a million people was delivered to the BBC today, in a tank.
“Screw them all,” I say. “I’ve had it with everybody. And now I’m going, because Hammond has just got a round.”
“But that was May,” says the guy sitting next to me. “Hammond is me.”
“I just don’t care,” I explain.
“I’m just never sure if he’s joking or not,” says the other one.
“Let’s assume he is,” says the first.
“Get me a steak,” I say.
“Can do,” he says.
*according to Hugo Rifkind
