Met Jeremy Clarkson the other day, as you do, at the start of his Top Gear live whatsit at Earl’s Court.
Waited around the whole day, surrounded by motoring anoraks ogling the car models (i.e. women who have had their major organs removed so the dress fits nice). The show is off to Birmingham, then South Africa, so he’ll be out of the county, hurrah.
I expected him to be Mr Bloke, the kind of straight guy who is like Jesus to awful guys – the one whose clothes smell like mildewed towels. Clarkson, with his Superman voice and flat-ass jeans, is born to make buffoons feel great about themselves. Me? On full asshole alert…But akshully, Clarkson was – gasp – articulate and had toned down his pratness (until, of course, he used words like “bridled” and not in reference to a horse). He likes himself, old JC does – note the initials – but I bet if you were to get him alone in a room, he would possibly talk a bit about something that wasn’t himself. Maybe.
Who the hell am I kidding?