The World According to Clarkson
The outspoken and outrageous presenter of Top Gear, Jeremy Clarkson, shares his opinions on just about everything in The World According to Clarkson – a hilarious collection of Jeremy’s Sunday Times’ columns and the first in his The World According to Clarkson series which also includes And Another Thing…, For Crying Out Loud! and
Jeremy Clarkson has seen rather more of the world than most. He has, as they say, been around a bit. And as a result, he’s got one or two things to tell us about how it all works – and being Jeremy Clarkson he’s not about to voice them quietly, humbly and without great dollops of humour.
In The World According to Clarkson, he reveals why it is that:
• Too much science is bad for our health
• ‘70s rock music is nothing to be ashamed of
• Hunting foxes while drunk and wearing night-sights is neither big nor clever
• We must work harder to get rid of cricket
• He liked the Germans (well, sometimes)
With a strong dose of common sense that is rarely, if ever, found inside the M25, Clarkson hilariously attacks the pompous, the ridiculous, the absurd and the downright idiotic ideas, people and institutions that we all have to put up with at home and abroad, whilst also celebrating the eccentric, the clever and the sheer bloody brilliant.
Less a manifesto for living and more a road map to modern life, The World According to Clarkson is the funniest book you’ll read this year. Don’t leave home without it.
Number one bestseller, Jeremy Clarkson, writes on cars, current affairs and anything else that annoys him in his sharp and funny collections. Born To Be Riled, Clarkson On Cars, Don’t Stop Me Now, Driven To Distraction, Round the Bend, Motorworld, and I Know You Got Soul are also available as Penguin paperbacks; the Penguin App iClarkson: The Book of Cars can be downloaded on the App Store.
Read Clarkson book extracts and quotes from Jeremy Clarkson’s latest titles.
Another Day’s Holiday? Please, Give Me a Break
as they struggled back to work last week thought
that England should have followed Scotland’s lead and
made Tuesday a bank holiday.
Two things strike me as odd here. First, that anyone
could be bothered to undertake such research and,
second, that anyone in their right mind could think that
the Christmas break was in some way too short.
I took ten days off and by 11 o’clock on the first morning
I had drunk fourteen cups of coffee, read all the
newspapers and the Guardian and then . . . and then what?
By lunchtime I was so bored that I decided to hang a
few pictures. So I found a hammer, and later a man came
to replaster the bits of wall I had demolished. Then I
tried to fix the electric gates, which work only when
there’s an omega in the month. So I went down the
drive with a spanner, and later another man came to put
them back together again.
I was just about to start on the Aga, which had broken
down on Christmas Eve, as they do, when my wife took
me on one side by my earlobe and explained that builders
do not, on the whole, spend their spare time writing, so
writers should not build on their days off. It’s expensive
and it can be dangerous, she said.
She’s right. We have these lights in the dining room
which are supposed to project stars onto the table below.
It has never really bothered me that the light seeps out
of the sides so the stars are invisible; but when you are
bored, this is exactly the sort of thing that gets on your
So I bought some gaffer tape and suddenly my life had
a purpose. There was something to do.
Mercifully, Christmas intervened before I could do
any more damage, but then it went away again and once
more I found myself staring at the day through the wrong
end of a pair of binoculars. Each morning, bed and the
blessed relief of unconsciousness seemed so far away.
I wore a groove in the kitchen floor with endless trips
to the fridge, hoping against hope that I had somehow
missed a plateful of cold sausages on the previous 4,000
excursions. Then, for no obvious reason, I decided to
buy a footstool.
I took the entire family to the sort of gifty-wifty shop
where the smell of pot-pourri is so pungent that it makes
you go cross-eyed. Even though the children were lying
on the floor gagging, I still spent hours deliberately
choosing a footstool that was too small and the wrong
colour so that I could waste some more time taking it
The next day, still gently redolent of Delia Smith’s
knicker drawer, I decided to buy the wrong sort of
antique filing cabinet. But after the footstool debacle my
wife said no. So it seemed appropriate that I should
develop some kind of illness. This is a good idea when
you are at a loose end because everything, up to and
including herpes, is better than being bored.
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