As you may know I used to make a programme called Top Gear. Now I just hang around the house doing nothing. A friend whose name begins with R and ends with ichard Hammond says he used the down time to train his dog and that now his dog hates him. Which now makes the dog much like everyone else. If I wanted to die, I could take up golf, but instead I’ve decided to make another TV programme. One that is much the same as the last one, except it will be watched by fewer people.
Which brings me back to the Elgin Marbles which the Greeks are bleating at us to return. I’m sorry but I would be all for giving them back if Johnny Greek showed any signs of being able to take care of them properly. Put them back and they’ll be a pile of rubble in days. Think about it. If only we’d dismantled Palmyra stone by stone and erected it in Milton Keynes next to the cows then at least the Syrians wouldn’t have been able to destroy it for themselves. Most countries can’t be trusted with their own history.
Which brings me back to exercise. I did 10 minutes on the treadmill the other day and almost died of boredom. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather carry on smoking and just let bits of my body fall off at random. The perfect way of losing weight with no effort. And another thing. Why are papers like the Guardian always going on about women and the menopause? Frankly who cares? And why don’t people write instead about fat middle-aged men having a mid-life crisis, getting divorced and living on their own? That’s the real tragedy.
Which brings me back to yesterday morning when I was driving in to London from my farm in the Cotswolds when I got stuck in a traffic jam. All because some inconsiderate cyclist had got entangled under a lorry. I mean the guy was obviously dead, so why not just dump him in a skip and keep the traffic moving rather than make half of London late for work? I was in Johannesburg last month and there were three black guys who had been shot lying by the side of the road and the white policeman just waved everyone past. It was no big deal. Say what you like about the effects of apartheid, but they know how to keep the traffic moving.
Which brings me back to Scotland. What is the point of Scotland? Every time I’ve been there it’s either been tipping down with rain or teeming with midges. And when you are there, there’s absolutely nothing to do. Zilch. Nada. The same goes for New Zealand. Which is why after you’ve shagged a few sheep all anyone can think of to do is throw themselves off bridges while attached to a piece of elastic. If we really want to do something about the refugees crisis, we should just broadcast Scottish tourist promos on Syrian TV and then everyone would decide to stay put.
Which brings me on to David Bowie. Why is no one allowed to say they weren’t that bothered when he died and would much rather listen to the Doobie Brothers? It’s the same kind of bonkers political correctness that means no one is allowed to say they like David Cameron and Rebekah Brooks. Dave is a great bloke with a wife that everyone wants to shag. What more could you want from a prime minister? I was chatting to him the other day about how hard it is to know what colour wine to drink. Red gives you a face the colour of bouillabaisse, white wakes you up at 3am with a headache and rosé turns you into a pouf.
Which brings me on to the referendum. Obviously no one I know voted to leave the EU but then like you I don’t know anyone from Barnsley or Stoke. Obviously it’s all going to end in tears. Personally I blame people with cats. And automatic number-plate recognition cameras. And sandal wearing, Guardian reading cyclists who wanged on about there being nothing wrong with the Hun. If we’re not careful we’re going to end up with Boris Johnson. A man with an even bigger mid-life crisis than me. Why does no one write about the male mid-life crisis? Every feature is about the menopause and how it makes you a lesbian. What’s to moan about?
Which brings me back to the fact that it’s January and I’ve got nothing to write other than to rehash last January’s column about how I hate exercise, love smoking and am making a new programme whose name no one can remember. Still at least it will get me out of the country. You want to know why Britain voted to leave the EU? I’ll tell you. It was because football fans got sick of being told it was racist to sing songs about Romelu Lukaku having a big todger. I’d love it if someone sang about my todger. But the PC followers of Beardy Corbyn won’t allow it.
Which brings me on to David Attenborough. Who isn’t sick of him going on about climate change? If the namby pamby coral is finding the sea temperature too hot in Barbados then why doesn’t it move to Morecambe? And don’t get me started on the health and safety killjoys of bonfire night. If we were to blow up Hull, we’d be doing everyone a favour.
Which brings me on to Alexa. The internet is taking over our lives. These days all you have to do is shout, “Alexa, type me out a Jeremy Clarkson book that sounds much the same as all the other ones” and you end up with something like this.
Digested read digested: If only you’d give us a break ...
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