Where do you fucking start? The wiry bubble perm perched atop his enormous asymmetrical head like pubic candy floss; the look of arrogance and world-weary disdain; the torturously contrived delivery of his tiresome observations on Top Gear; his notorious blokey statements which have Sun readers dancing in the streets; his inherent racism masquerading as “straight talking”?
On the latter, I must confess to not being entirely sure whether he actually holds these views or they’re merely said for the benefit of either raising his profile (or for selling copies of the above-mentioned tabloid whose readership lap this shit up like dogs eating their own vomit). I suspect it’s the latter, but whichever way, it’s cuntitude.
Clarkson exhibits a boisterous, no-nonsense, machismo usually reserved for the RSI-addled, myopic readers of Nuts magazine and stands for all things “blokey”, though most notably, cars. Top Gear is fucking unwatchable and delivered with more stunted deliberation than a school nativity for special children. The well-rehearsed exchanges are about as spontaneous as a narcoleptic Steven Hawking. It’s imbecilic and retarded, with a core demographic of comedically-challenged petrolheads who used to beat up fat kids in school.
“He says what he likes, he just doesn’t care!” they cry. “Ooh, he’s a bit close to the bone isn’t he?” they gasp. No, he’s just a sad old man in high-waisted, boot-cut jeans and Cuban heels who drives cars very fast and is paid to be controversial while most of what he actually says is said for effect and the rest of the time actually makes fuck-all sense.
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