A dream and a nightmare
I flicked through The Sun yesterday.
Twisted, I know, but two headlines made me laugh. The first was 22
STONE SCISSOR WEILDING MANIAC NIGHTMARE, with the sub-headline Why
was she given a job in a hairdressers? I didn't read the article, but
I predict a short novel and west end musical based on the true story.
The second was about Jordan and her new bloke spending his nights
accessing gay chatrooms.
Then there was Clarkson's page, guess
what his take was about the RSPCA spending £300,000 prosecuting the
Prime Minister's hunt? Whatever Clarkson's abilities and attractions
are (and I'm jiggered if I can identify them), the ability to express
an unexpected opinion isn't among them.
I think the questions should be to the
filth and the CPS rather than to the RSPCA: 'either you're in the
pocket of the rich and the hunts, or...' can't think of an 'or'. The
question should be: 'you refused, repeatedly, to prosecute on similar
grounds and with similar evidence. The very first time the RSPCA
bypassed you and went it alone they succeeded in the courts. Does
this not at least suggest and possibly prove that you are the lackeys
of the rich and powerful that ride out hunting?'
Then the images started:
A knock at the door. A 'policeman's
knock'. Loud, confident, persistent. A knock that, clearly, wasn't
going away. Jeremy opened the door, dressed in pyjamas, a cigarette
dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“Uh. Yes. What do you want? It's
three in the morning...”
“Mr Clarkson?”
“Yes”
“Mr Jeremy Clarkson?”
“Yes”
“I'm from the ministry.”
“The ministry”
“We're undertaking the cull”
“Cull”
“Cull. You know. You wrote about the
foxes making it difficult to run your farm and the need to keep
numbers down...”
“...so?”
“That's a cull”
“I know what a cull is...”
“Right Mr Clarkson. Well. You see.
The country's overrun with aggressive, middle-aged, middle class, opinions...much of it in the House of Commons, but there you go...”
“You what?”
“We are, Mr Clarkson, in common
terms, clichéd up to our eyeballs. We're one or two hackneyed
banalities away from drowning in our own triteness...”
“And?”
“And. Well. I'm sorry Mr Clarkson.
This is more humane than it may appear, so I'm told. You may want to
run away...”
“Run away?”
“Not much point, but most of them
do...”
The pack of huge, genetically modified
foxes (yes foxes, I'm not immune to cliché myself, okay, you could
even put it down to satire or something clever if you were feeling
kind) marshalled by eco-warriors driving 2CVs, and riding bicycles
(look, there's Swampy) came racing around the corner. They
immediately picked up the scent: stale cigarette smoke, BO,
halitosis, and...
“Oh dear, Mr Clarkson. You appear to
have let yourself down...”
Top Gear fans should look away now. A
lifetime of distain for any sport that does not require an internal
combustion engine had not prepared Jeremy for evading his perusers,
and in no time at all he was torn to shreds.
“Right” said the man from the
ministry to his deputy “where does Littlejohn live again?”
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