Clarkson on Mandelson

 

The following article by Jeremy Clarkson was to be  published in the  Sunday Times but was  ‘pulled’ – probably by the subject of the article, Mandelson. 

But poor old  Darth Mandelson fails to appreciate how the blogsphere works and in no time  at all, the article is going viral all around the world.  Thanks to him, the article will now be read by several million people instead of just the  forty-three people who normally read the Sunday Times.

    
 
   Jeremy Clarkson Sunday Times 15/11/09:

   I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought all week, and I’m afraid I’ve
 
   decided that it’s no good putting Peter Mandelson in a prison. I’m afraid he
 
   will have to be tied to the front of a van and driven round the country
 
   until he isn’t alive any more. He announced last week that middle-class
 
   children will simply not be allowed into the country’s top universities even
 
   if they have 4,000 A-levels, because all the places will be taken by
 
   Albanians and guillemots and whatever other stupid bandwagon the conniving
 
   idiot has leapt on.
 
    
 
   I hate Peter Mandelson. I hate his fondness for extremely pale blue jeans
 
   and I hate that preposterous moustache he used to sport in the days when he
 
   didn’t bother trying to cover up his left-wing fanaticism. I hate the way he
 
   quite literally lords it over us even though he’s resigned in disgrace
 
   twice, and now holds an important decision-making job for which he was not
 
   elected. Mostly, though, I hate him because his one-man war on the bright
 
   and the witty and the successful means that half my friends now seem to be
 
   taking leave of their senses.
 
    
 
   There’s talk of emigration in the air. It’s everywhere I go. Parties. Work.
 
   In the supermarket. My daughter is working herself half to death to get good
 
   grades at GSCE and can’t see the point because she won’t be going to
 
   university, because she doesn’t have a beak or flippers or a qualification
 
   in washing windscreens at the lights. She wonders, often, why we don’t live
 
   in America ..
 
    
 
   Then you have the chaps and chapesses who can’t stand the constant raids on
 
   their wallets and their privacy. They can’t understand why they are taxed at
 
   50% on their income and then taxed again for driving into the nation’s
 
   capital. They can’t understand what happened to the hunt for the weapons of
 
   mass destruction. They can’t understand anything. They see the Highway
 
   Wombles in those brand new 4x4s that they paid for, and they see the M4 bus
 
   lane and they see the speed cameras and the community support officers and
 
   they see the Albanians stealing their wheelbarrows and nothing can be done
 
   because it’s racist.
 
    
 
   And they see Alistair Darling handing over £4,350 of their money to not sort
 
   out the banking crisis that he doesn’t understand because he’s a small-town
 
   solicitor, and they see the stupid war on drugs and the war on drink and the
 
   war on smoking and the war on hunting and the war on fun and the war on
 
   scientists and the obsession with the climate and the price of train fares
 
   soaring past £1,000 and the Guardian power-brokers getting uppity about one
 
   shot baboon and not uppity at all about all the dead soldiers in
 
   Afghanistan, and how they got rid of Blair only to find the lying twerp is
 
   now going to come back even more powerful than ever, and they think, “I’ve
 
   had enough of this. I’m off.”
 
    
 
   It’s a lovely idea, to get out of this stupid, Fairtrade, Brown-stained,
 
   Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural, carbon-neutral,
 
   trendily left, regionally assembled, big-government, trilingual,
 
   mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal, property-is-theft hellhole and set
 
   up shop somewhere else. But where?
 
    
 
   You can’t go to France because you need to complete 17 forms in triplicate
 
   every time you want to build a greenhouse, and you can’t go to Switzerland
 
   because you will be reported to your neighbours by the police and
 
   subsequently shot in the head if you don’t sweep your lawn properly, and you
 
   can’t go to Italy because you’ll soon tire of waking up in the morning to
 
   find a horse’s head in your bed because you forgot to give a man called Don
 
   a bundle of used notes for “organising” a plumber.
 
    
 
   You can’t go to Australia because it’s full of things that will eat you, you
 
   can’t go to New Zealand because they don’t accept anyone who is more than 40
 
   and you can’t go to Monte Carlo because they don’t accept anyone who has
 
   less than 40 mill. And you can’t go to Spain because you’re not called Del
 
   and you weren’t involved in the Walthamstow blag. And you can’t go to
 
    Germany … because you just can’t.
 
    
 
   The Caribbean sounds tempting, but there is no work, which means that one
 
   day, whether you like it or not, you’ll end up like all the other expats,
 
   with a nose like a burst beetroot, wondering if it’s okay to have a small
 
   sharpener at 10 in the morning. And, as I keep explaining to my daughter, we
 
   can’t go to America because if you catch a cold over there, the health
 
   system is designed in such a way that you end up without a house. Or dead.
 
    
 
   Canada’s full of people pretending to be French, South Africa’s too risky,
 
   Russia’s worse and everywhere else is too full of snow, too full of flies or
 
   too full of people who want to cut your head off on the internet. So you can
 
   dream all you like about upping sticks and moving to a country that doesn’t
 
   help itself to half of everything you earn and then spend the money it gets
 
   on bus lanes and advertisements about the dangers of salt. But wherever you
 
   go you’ll wind up an alcoholic or dead or bored or in a cellar, in an orange
 
   jumpsuit, gently wetting yourself on the web. All of these things are worse
 
   than being persecuted for eating a sandwich at the wheel.
 
    
 
   I see no reason to be miserable. Yes, Britain now is worse than it’s been
 
   for decades, but the lunatics who’ve made it so ghastly are on their way
 
   out. Soon, they will be back in Hackney with their South African
 
   nuclear-free peace polenta. And instead the show will be run by a bloke
 
   whose dad has a wallpaper shop and possibly, terrifyingly, a twerp in
 
   Belgium whose fruitless game of hunt-the-WMD has netted him £15m on the
 
   lecture circuit.
 
    
 
   So actually I do see a reason to be miserable. Which is why I think it’s a
 
   good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would be cruel and
 
   barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer everyone up a bit.

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