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Book Review: by Lang Reid
Clarkson Volume 3
 The
World According to Clarkson Volume 3 is subtitled For Crying Out Loud
(ISBN 978-0-141-03812-4, Penguin Books, 2009) and follows the same basic
concept as the previous two volumes, being collections of his weekly columns
in the Sunday Times in the UK. The dedication gives an inkling of what is to
come where Clarkson writes, “This is dedicated with gratitude to the Green
Movement, the Americans and the Health and Safety Executive for giving me so
much to write about.”
I have to say that I feel sorry for Clarkson, and in some ways I feel an
affinity with him. Writing a column each week is not an easy task, as I well
know, writing this one. It is difficult to keep the prose witty and
sparkling each week, and for Jeremy Clarkson who is expected to produce
something stunning every seven days, it must be an even greater impost.
That shows in this latest volume where Clarkson has begun to lean heavily on
racial prejudice as the source of inspiration for some of the columns.
Whilst I decry the current wave of hysteria called political correctness,
there is no need for some of Clarkson’s over the top descriptions, such as
when describing his trip to America he ends up denigrating the pump
attendant, “You can, if you stare carefully, see wisps of smoke coming from
her fat, useless, war-losing, acne-scarred gormless turnip face.”
There is another problem with this book, and it’s not really his
anti-American stance, it is his parochial viewpoint. All the way through the
book there are references to people, whom if you don’t live in the UK, are
merely names, with no significance.
In another chapter, from which I can’t be bothered to quote, he delves into
scatology, a sure-fire sign of inspiration breakdown, telling the reader how
he, as well as being hypochondriacal, examines his own prostate with an
untrained digital finger.
He continues with his slide into hypochondria with his description of his
cold. As I have one while I am writing this column, I have absolutely no
sympathy for him, even if, as he claims, admitting to a cold “sounds a bit
wet and homosexual.” I am neither and neither is he, but what sort of a
cheap line is that?
Do not get me wrong over this, Clarkson is still a very funny writer, and
the master of hyperbole. “It’s why people will wait 200 years for a table in
the Ivy.” “…like listening to the fingernail express screeching to a halt on
a blackboard the size of Alaska.”
If this review were his report card, and incidentally he slings off at such
documents in this third volume, Clarkson’s report would read, “Can do
better.” Quite frankly, I was disappointed and did not even finish the book,
as it was becoming tedious. “Highly entertaining,” says the Daily Telegraph
on the cover. I feel this refers more to Clarkson himself, than this
particular book. At B. 425 it is not expensive, and if purchased should be
taken in small doses until the final page is turned. You have been warned.
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