Born to Be Riled
Authors: Jeremy Clarkson
Tags: #Automobiles, #English wit and humor, #Automobile driving, #Humor / General
PENGUIN BOOKS
Born to be Riled
Jeremy Clarkson began his writing career on the
Rotherham Advertiser
. Since then he has written for the
Sun
, the
Sunday Times
, the
Rochdale Observer
, the
Wolverhampton Express and Star
, all of the Associated Kent Newspapers, and
Lincolnshire Life
. Today he is the tallest person working in British television.
Jeremy Clarkson’s other books are
Clarkson’s Hot 100
,
Clarkson on Cars
,
Motorworld
,
Planet Dagenham
,
The World According to Clarkson
,
I Know You Got Soul
and
And Another Thing: The World According to Clarkson Volume 2
The collected writings of
JEREMY CLARKSON
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England
Penguin Group (USA), Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England
First published by BBC Worldwide Limited 1999
Published in Penguin Books 2006
1
Copyright © Jeremy Clarkson, 1999
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject
to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,
re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s
prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
EISBN: 978–0–141–90134–3
This book is dedicated to –
all those people who have bought it.
Gordon Gekko back in the driving seat
All aboard the veal calf express
Drink driving do-gooders are over the limit
Who’s getting their noses in the trough?
Burning your fingers on hot metal
Speeding towards a pact with the devil
Road rage – you know it makes sense
A laugh a minute with Schumacher in the Mustang
Mystic Clarkson’s hopeless F1 predictions
Struck down by a silver bullet in Detroit
You can’t park there – or there
A riveting book about GM’s quality pussy
Aston Martin V8 – rocket-powered rhino
Caravans – A few liberal thoughts
Blind leading the blind: Clarkson feels the heat in Madras
Norfolk’s finest can’t hit the high notes
Car interiors in desperate need of some Handy Andy work
Darth Blair against the rebel forces
Objectivity is a fine thing unless the objective is to be first
Brummie cuisine is not very good
Land of the Brave, Home of the Dim
Clarkson the rentboy finally picks up a Ferrari
No room for dreamers in the GT40
A rolling Moss gathers up Clarkson
Big foot down for a ten gallon blat
Frost-bite and cocktail sausages up the nose
Bursting bladders on Boxing Day
Lies, damn lies and statistics
Top Landing Gear – Clarkson in full flight
A fast car is the only life assurance
Cuddle the cat and battle the Boche
Travel tips with Jezza Chalmers
Noel’s Le Mans party blows a fuse
The Skyline’s the limit for gameboys on steroids
Henry Ford in stockings and suspenders
Corvette lacks the Right Stuff
Footballers check in to Room 101
Traction control loses grip on reality
Gravy train hits the old buffers
The curse of the Swedish smogasbord
Pin-prick for the Welsh windbag
Spelling out the danger from Brussels
F1 running rings round the viewers
Big cat needs its tummy tickled
Blowing the whistle on Ford and Vauxhall
Hell below decks – Clarkson puts das boot in
Bedtime stories with Hans Christian Prescott
Burning rubber with Tara Palmer-Tailslide
Absorbing the shock of European Union
Supercar crash in Stock Exchange
Voyage to the bottom of the heap
Mrs Clarkson runs off with a German
Kristin Scott Thomas in bed with the Highway Code
Even soya implants can’t make a great car
Lock up your Jags, the Germans are coming
Well carved up by the kindergarten coupé
Left speechless by the car that cuddled me
One car the god of design wants to forget
Can a people carrier be a real car? Can it hell
Hell is the overtaking lane in a 1-litre
Audi’s finest motor just can’t make up its mind
Keep the sports car, drive the price tag
Out of the snake pit, a car with real venom
The Swiss army motor with blunted blades
Perfection is no match for Brian and his shed
Waging war with the motoring rule book
Evo’s a vulgar girl, but I love her little sister
At last, a car even I can’t put in a ditch
Trendy cars? They’re not really my bag
Why life on the open road is a real stinker
Cotswold villages and baby seals
Shopping for a car? Just ask Rod Stewart
Gruesome revenge of the beast I tried to kill
Out of control on the political motorway
Old sex machine still beats young fatboy
Whatever happened to the lame ducks?
Bikers are going right round the bend – slowly
Freedom is the right to live fast and die young
A shooting star that takes you to heaven
Congratulations to the Cliff Richard of cars
David Beckham? More like Dave from Peckham
A prancing horse with a double chin
£54,000 for a Honda? That’s out of this world
It’s Mika Hakkinen in a Marks & Spencer suit
Like classic literature, it’s slow and dreary
Prescott’s preposterous bus fixation
Take your filthy, dirty hands off that Alfa
Yes, you can cringe in comfort in a Rover 75
Don’t you hate it when everything works?
The kind of pressure we can do without
Three points and prime time TV
Every small boy needs to dream of hot stuff
Footless and fancy-free? Then buy a Fiat Punto
Now my career has really started to slide
The best £100,000 you’ll ever waste
The terrifying thrill of driving with dinosaurs
Perfect camouflage for Birmingham by night
Another good reason to keep out of London
Need a winter sun break? Buy a Bora
I’ve seen the future and it looks a mess
Nice motor; shame it can’t turn corners
Stop! All this racket is doing my head in
Looks don’t matter; it’s winning that counts
It’s a simple choice: get a life, or get a diesel
Ahoy, shipmates, that’s a cheap car ahead
As a motoring journalist, you spend much of your life on exotic car launches, feeding from the bottomless pit of automotive corporate hospitality. And then you come home to tailor a story that perfectly meets the needs of the public relations department that funded it. For sure, you dislike the new ‘xyz’ but what the hell. Say it’s fabulous and you’re sure to be invited on the next exotic press launch. And so what if some poor sucker reads what you say and buys this hateful car? You’re never going to meet him because by then, you’ll be on another press launch, in Africa maybe, trying out the ‘zxy’.
I used to live like this, and it was great. But sadly, when I climbed into
Top Gear
, I had to climb off the gravy train. This is because, all of a sudden, people in petrol station forecourts and in supermarket checkout queues started to recognise me. These people had bought a car because I’d said they’d like it. And they didn’t like it because it kept breaking down. So now, they were going to fill my trousers with four star. And set me alight.
I learned, therefore, pretty quickly that the single most important feature of motoring journalism - or any kind of journalism for that matter - is speaking your mind. You mustn’t become Orville with a PR man’s hand up your bottom. I know that over the years, these columns from the
Sunday Times
and
Top Gear
magazine have caused PR men to choke on their canteen coffee, and that makes me happy. I have been banned from driving Toyotas, I’ve had death threats, and my postman once had to deliver letters from what seemed like the entire population of
Luton. But at least I can sit back now and know that every single opinion on these pages was mine. I just borrowed a car, and told you what I thought. No sauce. No PR garnish.