Clarkson: The Weekly Times Comment Column by Jeremy Thread

No, Revelator, Jeremy's right. Jeremy went to public school which, over here, is private school for the wealthy. If he'd wanted to take a gap year, I'm sure he could have afforded to do so. Some people certainly took a gap year in his (and my) day, but they were the exception rather than the rule, and the year was usually spent working (James, I believe, spent a gap year before university working in a foundry). Those who could afford to do so took a year off after graduating and before settling down to a job. The rest of us just went straight to work (if they could find any) immediately. We needed the money. It's only nowadays that it seems to be standard to take a year off to piss off the locals in other countries before higher education.

And, to continue his point, I do know one or two people who took a gap year in their forties to go travelling. More enjoying foreign cultures and less getting pissed and ending up having to be bailed out by the local British Consulate
 
Thank you for the correction Armie--my grasp of the English class system is rather poor.

Here is this week's column:

Your next HS2 service is the 3.15 to Victorian England
Published: 3 February 2013

As I see it, there are two clearly defined camps in the debate about the proposed high-speed rail link. You have those who live more than five miles from the proposed route.

They say it will be a wonderful piece of engineering, that it will make the nation proud and that it will bring untold riches to the north.

And then you have those who live less than five miles away. They say it is stupid and wrong-headed and a complete waste of money. Interestingly, both sides are wrong.

I have a great deal of sympathy with people who will soon have trains charging at 225mph through their kitchens. You sign up for a quiet life in the countryside and then you are told that soon your life will be ruined and your house valueless. Nimbyism is much criticised but it is an understandable reaction at times such as this.

Certainly if someone said they were going to locate the town tip in my back garden, or build a footpath right past my bedroom window, I?d fight like a savage dog to make the problem go away.

However, if we?d always put the needs of the few above the needs of the many, we?d still be in smocks, herding oxen. When Isambard Kingdom Brunel announced plans for his Great Western Railway, he faced a staggering level of resistance. But today we thank God he prevailed, or Bristol would still be 10 minutes behind London and you?d have to travel between the two on a horse.

It was the same story with the M1. The chief engineer spent months touring the proposed route, being shouted at by farmers and red-faced lords. But again we are grateful today that he was able to win them round. Or Leeds would be as inaccessible as space.

I like big engineering projects. They make my tummy do backflips. Often, when I?m on my way to Hull ? it doesn?t happen too often ? I?ll pull over and spend a few moments admiring the Humber Bridge. When it was proposed, it was considered stupid to spend millions linking Barton and Hessle, two settlements no one had heard of. And it probably was. But we ended up with what, to my mind, is the most beautiful bridge in the world. And that makes me feel all warm and gooey.

Which brings me on to the other side of the argument about HS2. The people who say it?s a wonderful piece of engineering. Because is it? Really?

No French or Japanese person I?ve met lists the railway network as a reason for visiting their country. A big dam, yes.

That would be tremendous. Or an elegant viaduct. But some track nailed to some sleepers and laid on a bed of cinders? My boat?s unfloated, I?m afraid.

Part of the problem is that trains are a bit Victorian. Tub-thumping and puffing your chest up about a new railway line is like tub-thumping and sticking your chest out about a new steamship. Or a new woollen mill.

We?re told that no one can know what life will be like when HS2 opens for business in 2026. Absolutely. But we can make an educated guess that the electronic revolution will have turned our lives completely upside down and that in all probability there will be no need to travel at all.

Which brings us on to the biggest problem with HS2. David Cameron quite rightly acknowledges that the north-south divide in Britain is getting so wide that unless something is done, we really will end up with two countries. I?m troubled by this as well but I fail to see how a railway line connecting the haves and the have-nots will help.

Last month I climbed on board a train in London and after just two chapters of my Jack Reacher book I was arriving in a northern town where there was some drizzle and a bit of graffiti. One chapter after that, I was in Liverpool. It was seriously quick.

But here?s the thing. Even if HS2 shaves an extra 30 or so minutes off the journey, I wonder how many people in Kensington and Chelsea will wake up and say, ?You know what? Since Liverpool is only 90 minutes away, we shall move to the Wirral.?

It?s even more bonkers when you view the situation from the other side of the coin. Because does anyone honestly think that Scousers continue to live and work in Liverpool simply because the current train ride to London takes too long?

At this point politicians tell us that a faster rail link would be good for business. Right. I see. But hang on a minute. What business?

One of the stations will be located at Sheffield?s vast out-of-town Meadowhall shopping centre. So are we expected to believe that because Yorkshire is only 75 minutes away, people in Notting Hill will decide to forgo a trip to Portobello Road on a Saturday morning and spend all their hard-earned City bonuses up north instead? I?m struggling with that concept, if I?m honest.

And I also struggle to imagine that life will become any easier for those running the BBC?s new northern headquarters in Salford. Today, even though staff in London are being offered up to ?90,000 to relocate, many are refusing to move away from their friends, their families and their children?s schools. And those who do go are finding that booking guests for their shows is difficult. Tom Cruise, for example, would travel to west London to promote his new film. But Manchester? Not a chance. And I can?t see the situation changing just because the journey time is an hour faster.

And in the big scheme of things, what?s the journey time got to do with it, anyway? People don?t choose to live in Liverpool or Sheffield because of how near they are to London. It?s just not relevant.

Most northern people I know hate London and care about its proximity only when their football team are playing Arsenal or Chelsea. If you live in Rotherham, you eat, socialise, drink and mate in Rotherham. What many don?t do, however, is work. Because there are very few jobs. And I?m afraid to say that problem won?t be solved by a big, noisy Victorian throwback.
 
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Here's Jeremy's latest column--an especially imaginative effort...

Oh, waiter, can I pay with this microchipped finger?
Published: 10 February 2013

We have been informed by the government that we have three years to microchip our dogs. And that if we fail to comply, we will be fined up to ?500. This is normally the sort of bullying nonsense that makes me want to spit tacks and vandalise a bus shelter.

But I?ve read the details and I?m alarmed to say that the new law seems to make sense.

At present more than 100,000 dogs a year are either dumped or lost, and these days the police are too busy investigating dead disc jockeys to cycle around the parish comparing those out-of-focus ?missing? posters on lampposts with the forlorn collection of pooches they have in the station kennels.

We can hardly expect the RSPCA to help out, either. Well, we can, but sadly this once great charity is now little more than a branch of the Communist party, which would rather spend its money prosecuting people for living near David Cameron than help a little girl to find her lost labrador.

In fact, the RSPCA seems to have rather missed the point of the chipping scheme, with a spokesman saying it will do little to prevent dogs from biting other animals such as hedgehogs, badgers or, horror of horrors, possibly even one of the charity?s beloved foxes. This is true. Other things it will not prevent include barking at postmen and urinating.

However, those of us who are not mainly interested in resurrecting the ghost of Stalin can see there is one big advantage. The chip containing your details is inserted into a small glass cylinder the size of a grain of rice that is then injected into your dog?s back.

So, if it?s lost, the dog can be scanned in the same way that you scan vegetables at the supermarket and, hey presto, it?ll be back in its own bed, drinking warm milk by nightfall. Brilliant. And, at the moment, it can be done free. It?s so brilliant, in fact, that I started to wonder why, for instance, you could not insert a similar chip in your laptop and your phone or even your children.

You may argue, of course, that if a lost child is subsequently found, a chip is not necessary, because they are capable of telling their rescuers what their name is and where they live. But what if they?re not found?

As we all know, your mobile phone is constantly telling anyone who cares to look where you are. So long as the battery is connected, it?s a non-stop homing beacon. So why do Apple and BlackBerry not start selling parents the technology that can do this? Insert it into a child?s back and when they wander off at the supermarket, you can wave goodbye to the misery of spinning round and round in pointless circles and in just a few moments find out exactly where they?ve gone.

Naturally, it gets better. Because later in life, when they are 16 and they say they are popping out to the library to catch up on some physics homework, you can determine whether this is true, or whether, in reality, they are doing 90mph in a mate?s Vauxhall Corsa, on their way to the Duck and Sick Bag.

Indeed, as I lay in the bath last night, considering all the advantages of chipping children, I hit upon an even bigger brainwave: chipping myself.

I bet the government has already had many meetings about this. Because if every single person in the country were chipped, they?d know where we?d been, who we?d been with and how fast we?d driven home. Such a scheme would free up so much police time, they?d be able to investigate even more dead DJs.

But, of course, there?s the pesky question of human rights. We don?t necessarily want Mr Cameron to know where we were last night, so we may be reluctant to provide him with a means of finding out. And we may remain reluctant right up to the point where we realise the advantages.

For many years boffins have inserted electronic devices into our bodies to regulate the beat of our heart and alter our mood and even bring about orgasm. But this, I feel, is just the start.

Look at that tiny chip in your credit card. Why does it have to be mounted in a bit of plastic that one day, as sure as eggs are eggs, you will lose? Why can it not be sewn into the palm of your hand, which, unless you go shoplifting in Saudi Arabia, you will not?

There are other advantages, too. There?s no reason why, when you pick up a product at the supermarket, its sensors cannot read your chip and automatically deduct its cost from your bank account. This would mean no more queuing at the checkout tills.

It?s the same story at airports because the electronic chip in a modern passport would easily fit into your earlobe. You just walk past a scanner and ? ping. You?re in. And, of course, your other earlobe could contain details of your driving licence, which would cut the time it takes to rent a car from the current average of around 16 hours to just a few seconds.

Pub landlords would also welcome the idea because at present they have to serve a six-year-old child with six double vodkas simply because they have produced a scrap of ID, written in crayon, that says they?re actually 18. But with chipping, he?d know.

You could have an electronic ignition key for your car sewn into one thumb and a complex laptop password sewn into the other. And never again would you forget to withdraw your card from the cash dispenser because you wouldn?t need one. Simply insert your wedding ring finger into the slot and seconds later bundles of delicious money will pour forth.

You could even have a chip containing your medical records sewn into your genitals so that on one-night stands your partner would be able to determine whether you were suffering from anything they would rather not catch. The possibilities are quite literally endless.

It?s been said for many years that your body is a temple. And that?s fine. But I?d quite like mine to be a mobile phone and a credit card as well.
 
Many thanks to The Sunday Times for getting rid of their stupid paywall (though it makes my job somewhat useless, since now everyone can read Jeremy's columns on their site)...
Anyway, here's this week's opus, a celebration of a navy that will probably never be used, unless the UK redeclares war on Argentina.

Hello, sailor. Show me what Britain is really made of
Published: 17 February 2013

As we know, everything run by the dull, penny-pinching hand of government is a bit rubbish. Walk through Heathrow and when you get to the customs hall, all the equipment is scuffed and the tables are held together with duct tape.

In a hospital the front-of-house staff may be cheery and the shop may sell all kinds of succulent-looking fruit but peep into the spaces where the public are not allowed and it?s like peering into Eeyore?s Gloomy Place. It?s like nobody cares. And that?s the trouble, really. Nobody does.

It?s the same story with the police. Elsewhere in the world, they get snazzy costumes, flash cars and cool sunglasses. Here they rock up in a Vauxhall Astra, sporting a pair of trousers that have plainly been designed to fit someone else.

You just know that if the government had built the Shard it would have been quite a lot shorter and that the lifts wouldn?t work. The government doesn?t do fabulous. It does woeful. A point that was well made by the Royal Navy Lynx helicopter that recently came to pick me up in Stavanger in Norway.

To keep this ancient design even vaguely relevant, it has been retro-fitted with all sorts of radar equipment so now it looks like it?s caught a terrible warty skin disease. But it took off, nevertheless, and half an hour later deposited me on the navy frigate HMS Westminster.

It?s a little bit shorter than Roman Abramovich?s latest yacht. And cost slightly less to build. And from the outside, it?s not hard to see why. There?s a bucket for fag ends, and a principal armament of just one 4?in artillery piece. Or as a Second World War admiral would say, ?one peashooter?.

There are, however, several health and safety notices advising crew members on how not to get hurt. Which seemed to be a bit incongruous on a warship. But this is a government vessel. So what do you expect? Four functioning diesels, perhaps? Nope. Sorry. One of them was broken. Oh, and the previous evening it had sprung a leak. It might as well have been called HMS Vulnerable.

You could say that of the whole service because, if you exclude training vessels, the minesweepers, and various other odds and sods, the number of Royal Navy frontline surface ships stands at 18. That?s 18 vessels ? frigates and destroyers ? you would recognise as a warship.

To put that in perspective, the number of surface ships sent to give the gauchos a thick ear in 1982 ? and I?m not including the subs or the transporters or the service vessels, just the main warship flotilla ? was 25.

At the outbreak of the Second World War the Royal Navy had 317 surface ships. At the Battle of Jutland in 1916 it lost 14 warships and 6,784 men in just one encounter. And still came home saying, ?We won?.

All of which makes you think, with only 18 ships currently ready for duty, we couldn?t even defend ourselves against Belgium. Or could we? Because unlike any other government-run operation, HMS Westminster is much better than first appearances would have you believe. First of all, there?s the crew. One was just back from a spell with Nasa. Another, who had a regional accent, could mend a gas turbine with his eyelashes. Sailors? Yes. But every one who I spoke to was a top-class engineer as well.

And you should see how they operate on the bridge. Quietly. Like components in a brand-new laptop. Orders are spoken. They are repeated. Something happens. Have you ever been in a really busy restaurant in Turin? Well, this ship is the exact opposite of that.

And then you have the toys. What you can?t see from the outside is the astonishing array of missile launchers. The 4?in gun is only there to frighten a Somalian pirate. The real hardware is the Sea Wolf and Harpoon missiles, and the torpedoes. It?s a smorgasbord of guided ordnance designed to make Johnny Baddie have a surprisingly bad day.

But they are nothing compared with what you find in the bowels of HMS Westminster. You go down and then down some more, through tiny hatches that feature standard-issue military- sharp edges, until you arrive in a below-the-water-line room that looks like an air traffic control centre. But it?s no such thing. Because it?s not designed to land planes safely. It?s designed to land them quickly and at very high speed in the sea.

Then you move into the submarine-detection area. Same deal. It?s a room built specifically to make the enemy submariner all wet and uncomfortable. And yet, like the bridge, it?s as quiet down there as a chess tournament. Even at full speed. I know this because we went there. And Holy Mother of God . . .

Have you ever rented a jet ski while on holiday? Feels fast, doesn?t it? Well, the Westminster is faster still. And then, as we approached 30 knots and we were playing Moses, the captain ordered a sharp turn to port. You?d imagine a ship this size would respond like an elderly dog. But no. One second we were heading north and then we were heading west and I was standing on the aft deck, wondering out loud how the bloody thing hadn?t capsized.

You often see books that tell a man what he must do before he dies. Well, I?ve landed on a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier and flown an F-15 and been shot at while flying over Basra but I can tell you that the No 1 must-have experience is a Type 23 frigate turning hard to port at almost 30 knots. It is absolutely hysterical.

As night began to fall, it was time to make port in Bergen. The sentries put on body armour and manned the machineguns, in case the Norwegians got any silly ideas. And we were nudged to a standstill by a local tug. When you have only 18 warships in total, you can?t risk dinging one in a parking accident.

As I disembarked, I couldn?t help turning round for one last look. It may be a government vessel in a government navy. But I can tell you this. It does something no other government operation does: it makes you achingly proud to be British.
 
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And now this week's opus:

Work on the accent, Brum, and Tom Cruise will be in for a balti
Published: 24 February 2013

If I may be permitted to liken Britain to the human body, then Scotland is the brain, East Anglia is the stomach, North and East Yorkshire are the breasts and London is the heart that pumps vital nutrients and oxygen to the fingernails and the ears and Preston. Which leaves us with the garden shed we built years ago when we decided to take up metalworking: that?s Birmingham.

In recent years it?s been tidied up. Earnest locals have fitted funky new lighting and a bar. They?ve polished the lathe, too, and turned the vice into an amusing beer pump.

But still nobody?s interested. We don?t do metalwork any more. So, neat though it now may be, the shed remains rather unloved.

Early last week there were many big news stories to titillate the nation. A meteorite had crashed into Russia, a film had been made about Tom Cruise visiting a curry house last August in St Albans and people were very interested in the dramatic downfall of Oscar Pistorius. But even so, the eighth-most-read story on the BBC website was: ?Why does everyone hate Birmingham??

Twenty years ago it was very probably the worst place on earth. If you fancied eating something that wasn?t a curry, you?d set off on a long and fruitless walk that would culminate in you being vomited on. And then stabbed, for daring to get in the way of someone?s sick.

There was only one hotel where you had even half a chance of not catching lice and only one nightclub where you wouldn?t necessarily be glassed. Not that you could find either because a few years earlier someone had decided the city should have a series of underpasses. Unfortunately they?d got a bit carried away, so that visitors would turn off the M6, disappear immediately into a hole and not emerge until they were past Kidderminster. Birmingham, then, was difficult to find and horrible if, by some miracle, you succeeded.

The reasons for going? Well, Brummies were keen to point out they had more canals than Venice. By which I think they meant, more shopping trolleys in their canals than Venice. And, er, that?s it. Birmingham was just an industrial city that had no industry any more.

Today, though, everything?s changed. There are bars and nightclubs and Selfridges. And all the old industrial buildings have been turned into loft apartments for thrusting young executives. So why do we still have a problem with it? I realise, of course, that it takes a while for people to realise there?s been a change. We still, for instance, think of Stella Artois as reassuringly expensive rather than a drink that causes you to beat up your wife.

But continuing to think of Birmingham as a wart is as daft as continuing to imagine that York is full of oxen. You simply can?t not like the city any more. And it?s hard to dislike the people either. Chiefly because they are usually more British than we?ll ever be.

Show a Brummie a spectacular house and after he?s arranged his face to register a complete and absolute lack of interest, he will say, ?I wouldn?t want to hoover a sitting room that big.? Show him an amazing garden and he will say, ?I bet that takes a lot of digging.? Put his wife in a pretty frock and he will wonder what happens when she spills her balti on it. In short, a Birmingham person is born with an inability to say, ?That is amazing.?

The British have a global reputation for keeping their emotions hidden. But Brummies have taken this to a level that would flabbergast even the Duke of Marlborough. Their emotions are not just hidden. They are locked in a safe and buried under 20 tons of concrete, in a well, at the bottom of the garden.

You know Michaela Strachan? The bubbly, enthusiastic former children?s TV presenter? She?s not from Birmingham. We know this because she released a video called Wild About Baby Animals. If she?d been a Brummie, it would have been called Not Bothered Either Away About Baby Animals.

Of course, this refusal to find anything wondrous can be rather irritating. Especially when you are with a Brummie at the Grand Canyon and he?s facing the other way, checking his text messages. I?m not saying who that was. Only that his name begins with R and ends with ichard Hammond.

However, when you see a party of Americans whooping and high-fiving one another about something as trivial as a tropical sunset, you crave the company of a Brummie, who?ll wilfully face east and tell you he?d rather be in Moseley.

I?d be happy in the trenches with a Brummie too. Because the upside of his downbeat nature is that he doesn?t find things spectacularly bad either. You get the impression a Brummie would be capable of sitting there watching a rat eat his gangrenous foot without moaning anywhere near as much as, say, me.

So. We go back to the original question. Why, if the city?s improved and the people are stoic, does the rest of the country have such a problem with the place? Well, there?s no easy way of saying this. But, um, it?s the accent.

In the complex world of advertising, a Yorkshire twang is perceived to be honest. Which is why Sean Bean is used to promote every single thing. It?s the same story with the Scotch. Gavin & Stacey has made the Welsh accent funny and likeable, and now that Cilla Black has taken her mocking tones into retirement, posh is OK as well.

A Birmingham accent, however, makes you sound thick. If Einstein had been from King?s Heath, no one would have taken the theory of relativity seriously. If Churchill had been a Brummie, we?d have lost the war. And if you don?t believe me, just get someone from Castle Bromwich to read out the ?We shall fight on the beaches? speech.

That?s why people hate Birmingham. It?s because they think everyone who lives there is a bit daft. Happily, though, I have a solution. If the council really wants its city to thrive after the second phase of HS2 has turned it into an oxbow lake, it needs to stop giving the locals more bars. And send them for elocution lessons instead.
 
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And now your weekly dose of Jezza:

As Russians say, manners maketh the British late
Published: 3 March 2013

Time. It?s now so precious that we will happily spend an absolute fortune making all the things we do faster, simply so we have time to do more things.

A decade or more ago, if you were suddenly consumed with a need to watch some online footage of a cat falling over, it took about a minute for your internet to load the film. This was a minute none of us could spare. Then we got the idea of watching it on the go. Luckily a conglomerate of international mobile phone companies had paid the British government ?22bn for something called 3G. This meant people had to wait only five seconds to see a cat falling over, and for a while we were all very happy.

But then we all realised that in the modern world five seconds is far too long. So now phone companies have paid a further ?2.3bn for 4G, a service that delivers hilarious animal-related accidents almost instantaneously.

We see the same thing going on in lifts. We need a button that closes the doors when we?re ready to go because we simply cannot wait four seconds for them to close by themselves. Rightly so. Two lift journeys a day could waste eight seconds. Which in a working week is 40 seconds. In a time frame that vast we could have watched six cats falling over. And an amusing helicopter crash.

It?s the same at our favourite supermarket. If the queues are too long, we will go elsewhere. Even if we know the next shop fills its burgers with horses, toenails and bits of mashed bat.

I know I?m more pathological than most about wasting time, but surely you too must froth at the mouth when you sit down to watch a DVD and you are electronically prevented from fast- forwarding through the legal disclaimers that precede it. This is lawyers stealing our lives. And we hate it.

It?s strange, though. We fume in traffic jams and curse when people on pavements walk too slowly, yet we are prepared to waste hours and hours of every day gurning and engaging in idle chitchat with people we don?t know.

The British middle-class obsession with good manners means we feel obliged to discuss the weather with our postman and our holidays with our hairdresser. We write ridiculously long thank-you letters to people we?ve already thanked verbally. In business emails we use words that aren?t necessary simply because we feel the need to be polite, and if we want directions we always start out by saying, ?Excuse me. I hate to be a bother but . . .?

Been on a flight recently? The obsequiousness is now so rampant that it takes half an hour to make every announcement. ?Any bread items for yourself at all today, sir??

I bring all of this up because I?ve just spent a week in Russia where manners don?t seem to have been invented. When a hotel receptionist needs your passport, she doesn?t say, ?Would it be possible to see your passport for a moment, sir, if it isn?t too much trouble?? She says, ?Passport?. And if you can?t find it within three seconds, she says, ?Now!?

When you order a dish from a menu that isn?t available, there?s no tiresome hand-wringing explanation from the waiter. He just says, ?It?s off?. And if you are struggling to get your luggage through a revolving door, no one waits patiently until you?ve sorted the problem out. They repeatedly shove the handles until everything in your suitcase is smashed and your fingers have been severed.

When a British Top Gear fan wants my photograph, they spend hours explaining how their son watches the show on Dave and how he can impersonate me and how it?s a religion in their house. Whereas in Russia they just say, ?Photo?. And if they don?t happen to have a camera, you are told to stay where you are until they have been back to their house and got one.

Ever been stuck behind two British people while waiting for a ski lift? ?After you.? ?No, you were here first.? ?No, really. I?m sure you were.? ?Oh, it?s OK. I don?t mind waiting. It?s such a lovely day.? ?Much warmer than last year.? After a while you are consumed with an urgent need to stab both of them with your poles.

Queuing is much easier in Russia ? because no one bothers. You just walk to the front and if anyone objects ? this actually happened ? you pull out your wallet and show the complainant your credit cards. This is Russian for, ?I am richer than you, sunshine, so shut up.?

It?s the same in what we call polite discussion. You don?t dress up counter-arguments with subtle innuendo. Russians just say, ?You?re wrong? and move on. Here?s one conversation I had:

?Jews are running the world.?

?I hear what you say, but I don?t think that?s the case.?

?You?re wrong.?

?But there are plenty of examples . . .?

?I said, ?You?re wrong.??

Being British, it?s all very upsetting. But after a while I started to realise that being impolite saves an awful lot of time and costs you nothing. When someone is wasting your evening with their harebrained nonsense, just tell them they are wrong and walk away. When you are in a butcher?s shop, don?t bother with small talk. Just say, ?Two chops? and wait to be told the price. When someone is dawdling on the pavement, push them out of the way. And in a bar, don?t try to catch the barman?s eye. Just shout what you want from the back of the queue.

It certainly works on Aeroflot. Planes set off before everyone is seated, and when you are coming in to land, you don?t get any rubbish from the pilot about the weather and he doesn?t wish you a safe onward journey. You are told to sit up straight and to remain seated until the plane has stopped. Which no one does.

Back at Heathrow, the immigration official was very chummy. ?Been away long?? he asked politely. I saved two seconds by not bothering with an answer.

I felt terrible. Guilty as hell. But that?s the curse of being British. That?s why we need 4G and buttons that close the lift doors, and high-speed rail links. Because they free up more time for writing very long thank-you letters and making small talk with the milkman.
 
I'm a bit late with this week's column...

Scram, polar bears ? we need the North Pole for world peace
Published: 10 March 2013

We shouldn?t be all that surprised that local authorities make a lot of silly decisions because they are usually staffed by well-meaning dimwits or single-issue lunatics with too much armpit hair. This is Gola League politics run by Corner Shop Cup politicians, so naturally your local hospital is going to be full of starving old ladies and all your roundabouts will be back to front.

What?s less easy to fathom is why we see similar ineptitude on the global stage. When there is a G8 meeting or some important United Nations seminar, Britain doesn?t rummage around in the third division looking for a suitable representative.

We don?t send the deputy planning chairman from Macclesfield borough council. This is World Cup politics, so we send the brightest and the best. We send someone who has risen to the top of his game and so do all the other interested parties. And yet still nothing sensible is achieved.

Why? Tony Blair, for all his numerous faults, is not an idiot. Yet somehow he came back from a conference with all sorts of similarly bright politicians and said, ?Yup. We?re going to start a war, even though we have absolutely no idea how it will ever end.?

How does this happen? How come normal, ordinary people who got a C in their history O-level can see what should be done whereas a politician who got a degree from Oxford cannot? Well, I?ve given the question some thought and the answer is obvious. When the world leaders get together, all bar one of them will be suffering from that most debilitating of things: jet lag.

I travel a lot. Really a lot. Last week I was in Siberia. Next week I?ll be in New Zealand. And after that it?s Spitsbergen in Norway, South Africa, Moscow and Holland. This morning I?m in Australia. I?m hosting a show that features um . . . I can?t remember because all I want to do is go to bed. Not that there?s any point, because if I were to climb between the sheets I?d just lie there, not sleeping.

After seasickness and trying on trousers, jet lag is the worst thing in the world. There are those who claim they don?t suffer from it, but this is nonsense. Everyone does, especially after they?ve been irradiated and starved of nicotine for 20 hours on an aeroplane.

People say there are cures and ways round the problem, but there aren?t. I?ve tried drinking water on the plane and I?ve tried drinking sixteen hundred bottles of wine. I?ve tried sleeping and I?ve tried not sleeping. Nothing works. Jet lag, after a long flight, is an inescapable hell.

You can?t think straight, which is why, whenever I?m in Australia, I say or do something that ends up sparking fury in the Daily Mail. I look at breakfast menus thinking, ?All I want is a glass of port?, and then, before bed, I get a craving for a full English. I go for long walks at three in the morning and, at 11am, when I?m supposed to be working, my eyes feel like they are full of grit and my neck muscles collapse.

The only cure is time. It takes one day to move your body clock one hour. So if there?s a nine-hour time difference, you will not be fully in tune for nine days.

Of course, this isn?t really the end of the world for me because, with the best will in the world, my day job is hardly a matter of life or death.

And it isn?t really a problem for holidaymakers either because all they?re going to do is lie on a beach, reading about Jack Reacher.

For a politician, though, things are rather different. He doesn?t have nine days to adjust. He gets off the plane and immediately he is glad-handing someone in a robe who wants some fighter-bombers. And he can?t remember why, because various mealy-mouthed idiots back in Britain insisted he flew all the way there sitting bolt upright, in economy, next to a mewling, puking baby.

This is one of the main reasons why America always seems to get its way at international get-togethers. Because its representatives arrive on Air Force One, feeling fresh, and everyone else arrives on easyJet, having taken some kind of pill to numb the misery.

Sleeping pills are never the answer, though. Take one of those when you are minister for international development and pretty soon you?ll be having a fistfight with Monsieur Hollande, having signed an agreement in which Britain takes on the global debt all by itself.

Not that things are going to be any better if you haven?t taken a sleeping pill. Because you won?t be able to concentrate on what the man in a robe is saying, you?ll still want a fistfight with Monsieur Hollande and all you can hear from your similarly affected translator is the sound of snoring.

Why else do you think representatives at the Kyoto climate conference decided the world?s electricity needs could be met by burning sunflower seeds? Because it?s hard enough to translate John Prescott at the best of times, and nigh-on impossible when your head?s full of porridge.

Then we have William Hague. He is super-bright and, I think, an excellent foreign secretary. But at a recent conference on Syria he decided that the opposition forces must be given some blankets in their struggle against President Asda (which is what my jet-lagged spellchecker thinks he?s called).

Really? Is that a good idea? Because they are either hardline Islamist nutters, in which case they get nothing. Or they are not, in which case they should have some guns. Blankets is the correct answer only if your head thinks it?s three in the afternoon and actually it?s five in the morning.

Happily, however, I think I have a solution to all of this. A solution that eliminates jet lag. We simply host all future conferences where it?s whatever time you want it to be: the North Pole.

Oh, and to level the playing field with America, can we buy the people who are going in to bat on our behalf the sort of jet on which they can arrive having had a bit of bloody sleep?
 
Thanks again, appreciated!

And thank you in turn. Unfortunately, The Sunday Times has resumed its paywall, and I will be unable to post this week's column. I'll try looking for a workaround, but otherwise things look bleak for our weekly Clarkson fix.
 
Are you sure? I've just read the ones for the 17th and 24th. Is it some sort of zone related thing ?

It's definitely weird. Last week I couldn't access the columns, this week I was able to access everything on the Sunday Times website. I have no idea what they're up to, but for now we have Clarkson back.
Here are the past two columns:

It?s a simple choice, caller: your money or your daughter
Published: 17 March 2013

If you were God and you were all-powerful, you wouldn?t select Bethlehem as a suitable birthplace for your only child, because it?s a horrible place. And you certainly wouldn?t let him grow up anywhere in the Holy Land. What you?d actually do is choose New Zealand.

New Zealand causes anyone to question the wisdom of God. Because if he really were all-knowing, children at Christmas time today would be singing ?O little town of Wellington? and people would not cease from mental fight until Jerusalem had been built in Auckland?s green and pleasant land. Jesus would have been from Palmerston North.

I?m in New Zealand right now and it really is absolutely stunning ? bite-the-back-of-your-hand-to-stop-yourself-crying-out lovely. But sadly, because of modern technology, I can?t enjoy any of the things it has to offer. Not its wine or its sunshine or even the scrutiny of its fastidiously attentive paparazzi. Because on the way here I lost my credit card.

Obviously I had to cancel it. Which meant ringing a cheerful computer that asked me to say my 16-digit number. I read it out. But it didn?t understand. So I used my best Richard Burton voice and tried again. It still didn?t understand. And then I lost the signal. And had to start again.

Eventually, after tapping two billion numbers into the handset, I was transferred to a man in India, who asked a few security questions and then said he?d cancel the card immediately . . . along with all the others in my name.

?Whoa,? I said. ?No.? Because that would include cancelling the emergency card I?d given to my 18-year-old daughter, who?s now travelling through Namibia. The Indian man was most apologetic but said that if I cancelled my card, then she would be at the mercy of every rapist and vagabond in southern Africa.

So because of a computer program, Barclaycard was faced with a simple choice. Either it keeps my stolen card operational, knowing that someone could use it to buy a private jet. Or it allows my daughter to be left, cold and alone, in the home of a former Nazi dentist who wants to know if it?s safe.

The Indian man said he?d find his supervisor and transferred me to a piece of music that went on for so long that the battery in my new iPhone went flat.

Speaking of which. Recently in Australia I sat on my last phone and the screen broke. So I bought a new one, assuming that because I?d backed up all the information it would be transferred seamlessly. How naive I am.

What it did was transfer some of the information. So, of the 1,600 emails I know to be sitting in my inbox, it selected just one: a party invitation sent in February last year.

Then there?s the phone itself. It?s an iPhone 5 and unlike on the previous model the space bar doesn?t work unless you hit it hard and repeatedly. Which then causes it to write a full stop. Also, it can?t be charged by any of the 2,000 chargers you currently own.

Apple must have known before it put the phone on the market that this was a problem. It must have. But it went ahead anyway. Barclaycard must have known that when someone loses a card, it would be stupid to cancel all the cards in that person?s name. But that didn?t stop it.

And it?s the same story with HSBC, whose MasterCard I have just tried to activate. The Welsh woman I rang said she?d send a Pin code to my home address within six working days.

How can HSBC think this is good enough? Does it now spend so long in meetings, working on yet more annoying airport advertising, that it hasn?t realised people on the other side of the world may need access to their money immediately? Not in six working days, 12,000 miles from where they actually are.

But we see stuff like this everywhere. Yesterday I tried to speak with my colleague James May on a satellite phone. These devices are commercially available and are billed as vital life-support systems if you are travelling to very remote, dangerous parts of the world where you may need rescuing and there is no mobile phone signal.

Can I let you into a secret? They don?t work. They didn?t work when I went to the North Pole. They didn?t work when I was in the Atacama desert, and when I tried to speak to James yesterday it sounded as if I was connected to a group of seagulls that had gathered around a drowning eunuch.

To try to see if he was indeed dying, I turned on a satellite tracking device that would pinpoint his precise position. This type of system is available to fleet managers so they can monitor the speed, direction and location of all the vehicles in their charge. Guess what. It didn?t work. I?d have been better off trying to work out where James was by using nothing but a forked stick.

I know exactly what?s wrong, of course. Such is the pace of change these days, and so heavy is the competition, that companies put products onto the market long before they work in the real world. We?re expected to buy an iPhone 5 because it?s new. And we sign up to an HSBC MasterCard even though it will cause us to end up under some newspaper on a park bench if we stray from our semi-detached house in Dorking.

What fascinates me, though, is that modern technology works perfectly well when it?s designed to make our lives miserable. Get caught by a speed camera in Australia and you can be absolutely certain it will record all the information accurately, that it will instantly glean your name and address from the company that hired you your car and that the lines connecting it to the database at the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency in Swansea will be functioning perfectly.

Likewise, if you arrive in New Zealand with some lamb in your rucksack, scanners will find it and you will go to prison. But go online to book a ticket to the theatre next Tuesday, and the best you can hope for is a message from British Airways saying, ?Thank you for your booking to Auckland, Barbara.?

***

Pah to apostrophes! And dont do me dinner, I can eat my sons
Published: 24 March 2013

When a local council in Devon announced that it would no longer be using apostrophes in its street signs, middle England painted its face blue and erupted in a rousing, teeth-gnashing chorus of, ?They can take our savings. They can take our land. They can take our children. But they cannot take our apostrophes.?

Such was the ferocity of the attack that last week Peter Hare-Scott, the leader of Mid Devon district council, said he would be recommending the decision is reversed.

Middle England was still furious, though. ?Is reversed?? it bellowed angrily, while waving spears and axes and jumping up and down. ?Why does he not use the bloody subjunctive? Is the man an imbecile??

Now I would dearly love at this point to say that this slavish adherence to correct grammar is foolish and small-minded. But I?m afraid I can?t. Because when I see a sign advertising CD?s and DVD?s I become so angry that my teeth start to fall out. If I receive a letter that is full of spelling mistakes and apostrophe misuse, I don?t bother replying. When a British Airways steward says, ?Any bread items at all for yourself, sir??, I am filled with an urgent need to punch him to the ground, because in my mind reflexive pronoun abuse is worse than trying on trousers or being stabbed. It?s the worst thing in the world.

I know this is idiotic. And I also know there is nothing wrong with splitting an infinitive. If Star Trek had been in Latin the Enterprise couldn?t have been on a mission ?to boldly go where no man has gone before?. Because ?to go? was one word. But in English it isn?t. And since there?s a gap, why should we mind if Captain Kirk fills it?

The whole point of language is communication, so, really, it doesn?t matter whether you go boldly or boldly go. Because we get the gist.

A number of years ago we were all consumed by a book called Eats, Shoots & Leaves. The idea was that the removal of a single comma changed the sense of the words completely. Not in context, it didn?t. If you?re talking about a panda, it?s one thing. If you?re talking about an inattentive boyfriend, it?s another.

It?s the same story with apostrophes. If you said you were going to Joburg, I?d understand what you meant. And if you wrote a note to your wife saying, ?There?s no need to cook me a special supper. I?ll eat our sons?, she wouldn?t suddenly decide you had taken up cannibalism.

It?s frankly amazing how far from correct grammar and spelling you can stray and still make yourself understood.

AA Gill suffers from what used to be known as slovenliness but is now called dyslexia, and as a result his texts can take a moment or two to decipher.

When, for instance, he suggests meeting for lunch in ?worsy?, common sense dictates he doesn?t want to meet you in the small town of Worsy, 90 miles east of Warsaw. Even though four letters are missing and one is wrong, it?s obvious he means the Wolseley restaurant on Piccadilly.

And when your children send you a text saying it would be ?gr8 2 C U 2 at 8 txt bk? you don?t assume that a cat has walked across their telephone keypad. You may despair a little bit but you know perfectly well what they?re saying.

Then we have Shakespeare, who is known to have written his name down only six times. And on each occasion it was spelt differently. Does that mean we dismiss him as an illiterate fool? And what of Chaucer? A man who thought it perfectly acceptable to spell ?nostrils? as ?nosethirles?. That doesn?t stop his work appearing on the school syllabus.

We even see this with the spoken word. When a person from Barnsley is overheard saying, ?Washewiersen??, it is obvious they mean, ?Was she by herself?? And when a Scottish person says, ?Do ye ken Peebles??, you don?t walk away imagining that he is a madman.

French people, meanwhile, speak in a language that makes absolutely no sense at all. It?s just a collection of grunts and shoulder shrugs, and somehow saucepans are female. But even here we can communicate.

I once went into a chandler?s in Cannes and, using skills gleaned in many Christmas-time games of charades, held myself on an imaginary lead and jumped up and down while barking. Had the sales assistant been a middle Englander and a stickler for correct grammar, punctuation and speech, he would have called the police and said there was a lunatic in his shop. But instead he reached below the counter and produced precisely what I?d wanted: a set of jump leads.

Language evolves. We gave up on Latin when we realised that you couldn?t decline a table. And in modern times only the Archbishop of Canterbury and Diana Ross use the word ?thee?. Today, thanks to text and Twitter, we are undergoing a complete revolution, and it?s no good hanging on to rules that were laid down hundreds of years ago.

I mean, seriously, if you?re looking for a street called Baker?s View, and the sign reads ?Bakers View?, you?re not going to keep on searching, are you?

Grammar is like the speed limit. Sure, a few people stick to it, but when the vast majority don?t, it really is time to change the rules. And I have an idea.

Plainly, what people want from the written word these days is speed, and we should accommodate that. Why use the word ?congratulations? when ?congrats? does the job just as well? And why sign off with ?I have the honour, sir, to remain your obedient servant? when instead you can use ?Best??

In fact we could go further. When I take notes in shorthand, words are abbreviated, letters are truncated and punctuation is not used at all. This means I can never read any of it back. But some people can. Shorthand is an affront to language but it works.

Write normally, and correctly, and you?ll manage maybe 50 words a minute. With shorthand you can rattle along at more than twice that rate. It?s time, then, to do away not just with grammar but with the alphabet as well.

Personally, I think Jeremy was correct to go with his first instinct, becoming so angry his teeth start to fall out. If the whole point of language is communication, then there must be agreed upon rules. And mastery of those rules is how we can tell a good communicator from someone who is sloppy and careless. Things like correct use of apostrophes are a good test of that--that's why Jeremy was correct to say that if he receives a letter that is full of spelling mistakes and apostrophe misuse, he doesn?t bother replying. The letter-writer's sloppiness was a sign of contempt and deserved to be met with the same. I think Clarkson exaggerates how far from correct grammar and spelling you can stray and still make yourself understood. And if it takes a "moment or two" to decipher those departures, then time is being wasted. (Plus, not being British, I have no idea what a person from Barnsley is saying when he says ?Washewiersen??, nor what a Scottish person means when they say, ?Do ye ken Peebles??) Language may evolve, but that's no reason to surrender to the mob.
 
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And thank you in turn. Unfortunately, The Sunday Times has resumed its paywall, and I will be unable to post this week's column. I'll try looking for a workaround, but otherwise things look bleak for our weekly Clarkson fix.

I've read elsewhere that if you google the actual title of a pay-walled article you can find a back door access; maybe this can help. Of course, this relies upon knowing the title of the article first.
 
I've read elsewhere that if you google the actual title of a pay-walled article you can find a back door access; maybe this can help. Of course, this relies upon knowing the title of the article first.

I've tried that, and it worked a couple of times in the past, but the Times seems to have wised up. For now I can freely read their articles, but I confess to having no idea how their access policy works or why it's so all over the place. Let's hope things remain the same next week...
 
I think Clarkson exaggerates how far from correct grammar and spelling you can stray and still make yourself understood.

Clarkson always exaggerates in what ever he says or write, that?s what make him funny, and that?s why he has so many followers.

Regards.
 
Clarkson always exaggerates in what ever he says or write, that?s what make him funny, and that?s why he has so many followers.

Certainly. But while Jeremy's exaggerations are often humorous extrapolations from credible premises, occasionally they stray too far from reality or plausibility. Fortunately, this week's column is restrained, descriptive, and still funny. It also derives from the journey undertaken for his upcoming documentary...

Warm the gunboats: it?s -58C in the world?s next tinderbox
Published: 31 March 2013

By and large, the world seems to have sorted out most of its boundary disputes. Yes, there?s still a bit of argy-bargy in the south Atlantic and the Palestinians would argue that their allotment is a bit meagre. But even in the former Yugoslavia new nations can play football against one another without having to dig a mass grave afterwards.

However, way up in the Arctic, in a place called Svalbard, I sense the mother of all boundary disputes is brewing.

Svalbard is a collection of islands that appear to have been sprinkled like icing sugar on the top of the world. They were formed several hundred million years ago and then absolutely nothing happened until a Dutchman arrived in 1596. He decided there was nothing of any interest there, so he went away again. And nothing continued to happen until 1920.

At this point the world decided it couldn?t really have a land mass larger than Denmark that nobody actually owned. A treaty was therefore signed that meant Svalbard became a part of Norway.

Today, though, cigarettes in Svalbard cost ?1.40 a pack, which tells me one thing: this is most definitely not a part of Norway. And that?s the problem.

Svalbard is really far away. Several years ago I drove to the magnetic North Pole. It was a gruelling eight-day journey over a frozen ocean, through some of the most inhospitable weather you could possibly imagine. And I genuinely believed when I arrived that I was the most northern person in the world. Apart from Michael Parkinson.

But Svalbard is even further north than that. So it?s horrendously cold. Idiotically, savagely cold. When I was there last week the midday temperature was -58C.

Incredibly, though, the Nors are trying to develop this place as a tourist destination. And they seem to be pulling it off. Mainly, I suspect, because this is the only place on earth that has polar bears and a scheduled air service back to civilisation. So you fly out there. You see a bear. You take out your camera to snap a picture. It isn?t working because it?s too cold. And then you die, in agony, of hypothermia.

Alongside the bear-huggers, you also have the thrill-seekers. The sort of people who have surfed the biggest wave and climbed the highest mountain and who now want to hike around the world?s northernmost inhabited settlement. Top tip: if this floats your boat, don?t bother buying a return ticket, because after you leave the airport you will get about a quarter of a mile before you are eaten by a bear. And you will be grateful because inside its stomach you will at least be out of the wind.

Me? Well, I was up there filming sequences for a new documentary about the Arctic convoys. This meant I spent five days sailing around the island of Spitsbergen trying to get an idea of what it was like for those poor souls in the merchant navy.

I couldn?t see much because the porthole in my cabin was frozen over on the inside but I did learn something. It turns out that you can get bored with crashing into icebergs. The first time it happens, you are scared and you rush about waving your arms in the air. The second time, you whimper and make your peace with God. But after the hundredth graunching impact you just turn over and go back to sleep.

We made it all the way to South Cape before we hit ice so thick we couldn?t go any further. At this point I climbed down a ladder and went for a walk on an iceberg. That was pretty cool. So pretty cool, in fact, that soon I climbed back up the ladder and made some soup.

Back on dry land, I went to the town. It?s called Longyearbyen and there are many restaurants where you can buy whale, and reindeer heart. There are bars, too, and shops that will sell you slippers made from bits of a seal.

Beyond this small settlement, however, there is nothing but mile after mile of enormous scenery. It is utterly bewitching. I?d like to call it jaw-dropping but in temperatures such as this your jaw doesn?t do much of anything at all. And after about half a second your eyes freeze over so they don?t work, either. And then you die.

As a tourist destination, then, it doesn?t really work. Iceland is better. It may be diet-Arctic but it offers everything you can get in Svalbard, apart from the polar bears, and that?s no great loss; disgusting, ugly, man-eating bastards, the lot of them.

But if things are bad for the visitor, imagine what it?s like to live and work in this remote place. Not many do. In fact, when my Airbus A320 landed, the population of Svalbard increased by 10%. Many are Thai. This is because one of the hotels employed a cleaner from Bangkok, who set up a laundrette. She employed two Thais to help her and pretty soon it was Australian rabbit syndrome.

The government has provided them, and everyone else, with a school and a concert hall and it gives them tax breaks. It plainly wants people to live there. And so do the Russians. They continue to run a coalmine in the hinterland, even though, by all accounts, it produces only enough coal to keep the miners warm.

Why? Ah, well, that?s the tricky bit. You see, the treaty that gave Norway sovereignty over Svalbard also said that the 40 or so nations that signed it had the right to exploit whatever minerals and resources lay under the permafrost. And guess what they?ve recently found in the waters off Svalbard. Yup. Oil.

So now you have Norway putting in the infrastructure and the Russians killing time. The Chinese are there as well, along with the Americans and the British. The Canadians are beefing up their navy. The Norwegians are claiming that the treaty applies only to Svalbard and not the waters that surround it. Denmark disagrees. So does Belgium. It?s all very ugly.

To sort it out, I?d normally suggest Britain send a gunboat. But the problem is that the Arctic is a terrible place to have a fight. The men who sailed on those Arctic convoys will testify to that.
 
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Thanks for bringing these Column.
Now I understand some of his twetts in the past week.

Regards
 
Looks like Jezza has this week off. Judging by his tweets, he's on a plane and has recently eaten a bat and burnt his face. That is all.
 
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