I see you, Jeremy Clarkson.
I see your gnarled head and your grumpy face, like an elephant's scrotum stretched across the trunk of a haunted tree. I see your thinning perm, like an irradiated Labradoodle fighting to hold on to your face. I see your enormous torso and wide shoulders. I smell the petrol and I hear the engines, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see you clunking around the Top Gear studio like a massive menopausal gibbon. I hear you weirdly emphasising and pausing after every other word, Jeremy Clarkson. The new Lamborghini has a gearbox... like a spaniard... full of hammers, does it, Jeremy Clarkson? I can see why you're so indispensable.
I hear you being a Lad, Jeremy Clarkson, as you banter with your friends by putting them all down. I see you chain smoking and gulping down steaks. I hear you laughing, a great jolly rumble, like a rhino farting across the face of the establishment. You're a maverick, aren't you, Jeremy Clarkson? You're a maverick, and it's fine, because it should be alright to offend people. Everyone's too bloody PC, aren't they, Jeremy Clarkson? All the lesbians and the ethnics and the disableds. God, and the disabled ethnic lesbians. They're just the bloody worst, aren't they, Jeremy Clarkson? They're all too bloody PC, and it's your duty as a phenomenally rich white man who's never experienced real prejudice to take a stand against it.
I see your every controversy, Jeremy Clarkson. I see you and Richard Hammond and James May tearing around the globe, while May shakes his sad hairy head and Hammond hangs on your every word like a shiny-toothed tagnut in the bum-beard of your ego. I see the long day's filming, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see that you're exhausted. I see that you're grumpy and fed up. After all, you drove a Ferrari for three hours today and they only paid you fifty thousand pounds. It's a fucking indignity, isn't it, Jeremy Clarkson? They better have cooked you a hot meal after all that gruelling work. It's just ungrateful otherwise, isn't it?
I see the assistant producer gesture to the catering tables, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the cold ham. I see the cold bastard ham, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the corner of your eye twitch, your rage building. What the hell is this? You drove a Ferrari for three hours today, and they only paid you fifty thousand pounds, and now they have the fucking nerve to serve you cold ham? Disgusting, perfectly fucking edible cold ham? Fucking hell, Jeremy Clarkson. I see that you are angry. And they're not going to like you when you're angry, are they, Jeremy Clarkson?
I see your hands balled into fists, Jeremy Clarkson. I see the veins bulging in your neck. I see Richard Hammond whimpering, bounding away on all fours to hide behind a bin. I see James May roll his eyes and pour himself another glass of red wine.
I hear your clothes stretching and popping at the seams as you roar, Jeremy Clarkson, your frame distorting and growing. I see your flesh turning blue, your eyes turning into shiny brass buttons. I see the stonewashed stitching of your new skin. I see you, Jeremy Clarkson, now twenty feet tall and bundled muscle, a murderous goliath of rage and denim. You are nothing but jeans and fury, Jeremy Clarkson, and that ham-serving prick is doomed. I bet he reads the fucking Guardian.
I see the producer scream, Jeremy Clarkson. I see his knees knocking together as he pisses all down his own legs. I see you towering above him, howling your hot ale-and-fag breath into his terrified face. I see your great blue hands pounding him into the ground. I see his bones shatter and I hear his screams cut short. I see him reduced into nothing but pulp and gristle, Jeremy Clarkson, a soggy puddle of crimson and organs that soaks into the fabric of your trembling Levi fists. I see you flinging his remains into the air, Jeremy Clarkson. I see half a mandible splash into James May's wine glass, spattering him with Cabernet Sauvignon. I see him tut, and carry on drinking anyway.
I see you pounding your chest, Jeremy Clarkson, and I see you crashing around the studio, toppling lights and flipping cars. I see the production team scattering to get out of your way. I see The Stig picking an intestine off his shoulder, his helmeted head shaking in annoyance. I hear Richard Hammond whining behind his bin.
I see you ripping the roof off a Porsche, Jeremy Clarkson, the jagged metal tearing the thick denim of your hands. I hear you howling with sheer, unadulterated rage. You're offended, aren't you, Jeremy Clarkson? And you can't offend a Lad without getting pulped into mush. That's just not how offence works.
Oh well, Jeremy Clarkson. You may have reduced a grown man you've worked with for fifteen years into a bloody puddle just because he didn't sort you out a steak, but I'm sure you'll have your job back next week, once you've calmed down and turned back into a human. After all, what's one murder at the BBC? It's only a fracas. A silly little fracas.
I'm appalled, Jeremy Clarkson, but then I remember that you also punched Piers Morgan once. And even I have to admit that you may have had a point there.
I see you, Jeremy Clarkson. I fucking see you
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