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JEREMY CLARKSON
Shellfish is my favourite food but now they’re full of cocaine I’m sticking to cow
How will I feel in future when someone presents me with a pot of cockles, and I know that it’ll be liking eating a branch of Boots?
WE were told this week that if we increase the amount of fish we eat by just one portion a week, we will never be ill and that this will save the NHS a massive £600million a year.
So there you go. Throw your fruit and vegetables into the bin immediately, get down to the chippy, pile on the mushy peas and the curry sauce and in the blink of an eye, your Type 2 diabetes will clear up, you’ll look like Gwyneth Paltrow and you’ll never catch chlamydia ever again.
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And there’s more good news, because the boffins who studied the research say that businesses will save £360million a year because no one will ever be off work ill, and that the economy will boom as a result.
Not if you’re a beef farmer, obviously, but we’ll gloss over that. Everyone else does.
However, before you all head off down to the fishmongers, I would just issue a word of warning.
Because in another story from the week, we learned that every single marine creature that lives in our waterways and coastal areas is off its head on drugs.
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Let me explain. The sewage that’s flooding into our waterways — partly because it hasn’t stopped raining since December 8, but mostly because the water companies are fairly useless — has obviously passed through our bodies.
In the olden days, when all we ingested was food and beer, this was sort of fine.
But now, millions of us take antidepressants and ecstasy.
And many women are on the Pill. And all of this stuff is now being passed through us, through our lavatories, through the sewage system and into all our fish.
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A Hampshire-based marine biologist went on the news this week and said that every single underwater creature he’d examined was full of cocaine.
He said he wasn’t sure how this would affect their behaviour but a recent study in Italy found that if you give an eel coke — God knows what possessed them to do this experiment, but they did — it becomes quite agitated.
This means that all our sea creatures are down there now, talking about themselves and wondering, having consumed so much estrogen, whether it might be a good idea to transition.
And then not bothering because of all the antidepressants.
Shellfish have always been my favourite food.
I go weak at the knees when I’m presented with a plate of oysters or a moules frites. And crab causes me to actually drool.
But how will I feel in future when someone presents me with a pot of cockles, and I know that it’ll be liking eating a branch of Boots?
Not good I suspect, which is why this evening I shall eat a bit of one of my cows.
Because I know for a fact that it spent its life ingesting nothing but grass.
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JUST a few days after having his appendix out, Ferrari Formula One driver Carlos Sainz flew to Australia, climbed into his car and won the race.
Naturally, many people saw this as a heroic display of stiff-upper-lip determination and spunk.
I wonder, though. We keep being told that these F1 cars are road-going fighter jets.
That they are a volcanic orgy of noise and G-forces. And that you need to be superhuman to control one.
Really? I only ask because Carlos, pictured in hospital, was plainly in some discomfort before the race but he seemed to manage for nearly two hours in the car.
Which leads me to believe that walking up to a Formula One car is actually harder these days than driving it.
Curse of the beard
FOR the first time since they wore red uniforms, soldiers and officers in the British Army will be allowed to grow beards.
Face fungus is allowed in the Navy and the Air Force, and it’s pretty much compulsory in the Special Forces, but until now, the nation’s squaddies and Nigels have had to be clean shaven.
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Defence Secretary Grant Shapps welcomed the decision, saying that the ban was “ridiculous” because people are perfectly capable of fighting with beards. But he’s wrong.
I grew a beard recently. I can’t remember why. Laziness probably. And I couldn’t believe how annoying it was.
I’d go into town to buy some lamb chops and all I could think when I got there was, “I’ve got a beard.”
I’d watch a film and at the end not have a clue what it had been about because I’d been sitting there thinking, “I’ve got a beard.”
I was paralysed by it.
Now in my line of work, this doesn’t really matter.
But when you’re charging down an enemy machine gun nest or flying a helicopter gunship or driving a tank, you need to concentrate.
And you can’t if you have face fur because all you can think is, “I’ve got a beard.”
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If Shapps doesn’t believe me, I urge him to grow some face furniture and then try to deliver a speech.
It won’t be possible because he’d just be standing there thinking, “I’ve got a beard.”
There’s something else, too.
You can never really trust a politician with a beard.
Which is why we didn’t elect a bearded Prime Minister until 1885.
And we haven’t elected one since.
Rural reds alert
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CHRISTIAN HORNER, the boss of F1 racing team Red Bull, wants to build a swimming pool in the grounds of his agreeable Grade II listed house.
And of course, the village’s red trouser people are furious, saying that it’s near a church.
I think that if you translate this into the language of Little England, what these people are saying is, “We can’t afford a swimming pool so we don’t see why he should have one.”
Honestly, out here in the sticks, it’s getting more like communist Russia every day.
WE were warned this week by the British Government that the Chinese Communist Party is spying on us.
Quite what we are supposed to do with this information, though, I’m not sure.
Go and live in a cave?
Frankly, I’m not bothered.
They can spy on me as much as they like and all they’ll be able to deduce after they’ve wasted their time is: “Christ, that guy drinks a lot of wine.”
Laughing all the way to the Barclays bank
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I WAS sitting in one of Sadiq Khan’s traffic jams this week when I noticed a shop called “We Buy Any Porn.Com”.
This baffled me, because why would anyone want to buy porn in this day and age? And then there’s the puzzle of who would want to sell it.
I suppose there must be a few people who have a garage full of old Penthouses, but it’d be a bit embarrassing to take them into a shop and say: “How much for this lot?”
Better, really, if you want to be rid, to make a bonfire and do it that way.
I therefore did some research and it seems that the people at We Buy Any Porn.Com will discreetly visit your house after you’ve died and clear away any, ahem, embarrassing materials before your family turn up.
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Which means that, actually, it’s quite a clever business.
I wouldn’t have thought of it myself, obviously, but I wish them well.
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