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Authors: Jeremy Clarkson
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father-and-daughter speed combos who really won’t notice a little girl’s head bobbing about in the waves.
The sea is an almost endless source of death and despair. Earlier this year, I plunged into it with a mate and spent several carefree minutes being bashed about by waves that were even taller than me. Then my friend was knocked over with such force that his arm was wrenched completely out of its socket. But did I get out of the water? Again, no. I’d seen what the water could do to a man … and I liked it.
Then we have the banana boat. You let your eldest daughter go in the speedboat while you climb on to the big inflatable penis with the rest of the family and then you sit there, trying to pretend it’s exciting while simultaneously pretending not to notice that the rapist who’s driving the towboat is playing tonsil hockey with your daughter.
And you think: ‘This is harmless. Boring even.’ And it is, but have you ever fallen off a banana? That’s not boring at all, because usually, just before you hit the water, you get your wife’s knee in your face; so now you’re drowning in a sea of stars and bewilderment, wondering if she did it on purpose.
Eating? At home, you wash your vegetables and cook your chicken until it’s technically coal. But on holiday? Well, after the swarthy waiter has stopped staring at your daughter’s breasts and explained that tonight’s special is a ‘local delicacy’, you’re perfectly happy to put it in your mouth. Despite the fact that it’s obviously a wasp that’s plainly been cooked in a bucket of blubber, in a bag bearing the label ‘Best before the Boer War’.
Then there’s the wine. You like it not because it’s cheap or tasty but because the hideous little oik in the apron has told you it’s made by his brother. You know he means his brother works at the chemical plant that produces a wine-based substitute as a sideline but you feel that because there’s a family connection, it’s authentic and earthy, and so you drink lots of it, and then you climb into the deathtrap that has three brakes and wobble home in a blurred tunnel of double vision and stomach cramps.
Of course, you know drink-driving is stupid. Except when you have a sunburnt nose and you’ve spent the day on the beach. Then it’s okay.
What is it then, I wonder, that makes us become so very different as soon as the Ryanair jet touches down in some
dusty sun-baked tourist trap? Why do we suddenly think that it’s a good idea to jump off a 100ft cliff into a puddle and let our children climb around on outboard motors that are still running? Why do we take leave of our senses?
Strangely, I think we don’t. I think that on holiday we become what we’re designed to be: thrill-seeking, fun-filled, risk-taking, happy-go-lucky wonder beings. And that when we go home, to the drudgery of everyday life, we are obliged to become something we’re not: frightened and ever so slightly dull.
8 August 2010
I’ve sprayed wasps with glue, now what?
There seems to be some talk that the retirement age will soon have to rise to ninety-eight for men and one hundred and fourteen for women. And that since the country can no longer afford to pay a state pension, everyone will be expected to finish their last shift by getting a carriage clock and then jumping into one of the machines at the factory. This is excellent news. And I’m speaking from some experience because on Monday I jacked everything in. I retired.
Top Gear
is a monster and feeding it takes up all the conventional hours – and a few that haven’t been invented yet.
And to make matters worse, we decided that while we were filming the last series, it would be a good plan to make a few items for the next one as well.
I’d film all day, then write until the wee small hours, waking up in hotels and spending the first fifteen minutes of the day wondering where the hell I was. Occasionally, I’d get calls from the family saying they were
The sea is an almost endless source of death and despair. Earlier this year, I plunged into it with a mate and spent several carefree minutes being bashed about by waves that were even taller than me. Then my friend was knocked over with such force that his arm was wrenched completely out of its socket. But did I get out of the water? Again, no. I’d seen what the water could do to a man … and I liked it.
Then we have the banana boat. You let your eldest daughter go in the speedboat while you climb on to the big inflatable penis with the rest of the family and then you sit there, trying to pretend it’s exciting while simultaneously pretending not to notice that the rapist who’s driving the towboat is playing tonsil hockey with your daughter.
And you think: ‘This is harmless. Boring even.’ And it is, but have you ever fallen off a banana? That’s not boring at all, because usually, just before you hit the water, you get your wife’s knee in your face; so now you’re drowning in a sea of stars and bewilderment, wondering if she did it on purpose.
Eating? At home, you wash your vegetables and cook your chicken until it’s technically coal. But on holiday? Well, after the swarthy waiter has stopped staring at your daughter’s breasts and explained that tonight’s special is a ‘local delicacy’, you’re perfectly happy to put it in your mouth. Despite the fact that it’s obviously a wasp that’s plainly been cooked in a bucket of blubber, in a bag bearing the label ‘Best before the Boer War’.
Then there’s the wine. You like it not because it’s cheap or tasty but because the hideous little oik in the apron has told you it’s made by his brother. You know he means his brother works at the chemical plant that produces a wine-based substitute as a sideline but you feel that because there’s a family connection, it’s authentic and earthy, and so you drink lots of it, and then you climb into the deathtrap that has three brakes and wobble home in a blurred tunnel of double vision and stomach cramps.
Of course, you know drink-driving is stupid. Except when you have a sunburnt nose and you’ve spent the day on the beach. Then it’s okay.
What is it then, I wonder, that makes us become so very different as soon as the Ryanair jet touches down in some
dusty sun-baked tourist trap? Why do we suddenly think that it’s a good idea to jump off a 100ft cliff into a puddle and let our children climb around on outboard motors that are still running? Why do we take leave of our senses?
Strangely, I think we don’t. I think that on holiday we become what we’re designed to be: thrill-seeking, fun-filled, risk-taking, happy-go-lucky wonder beings. And that when we go home, to the drudgery of everyday life, we are obliged to become something we’re not: frightened and ever so slightly dull.
8 August 2010
I’ve sprayed wasps with glue, now what?
There seems to be some talk that the retirement age will soon have to rise to ninety-eight for men and one hundred and fourteen for women. And that since the country can no longer afford to pay a state pension, everyone will be expected to finish their last shift by getting a carriage clock and then jumping into one of the machines at the factory. This is excellent news. And I’m speaking from some experience because on Monday I jacked everything in. I retired.
Top Gear
is a monster and feeding it takes up all the conventional hours – and a few that haven’t been invented yet.
And to make matters worse, we decided that while we were filming the last series, it would be a good plan to make a few items for the next one as well.
I’d film all day, then write until the wee small hours, waking up in hotels and spending the first fifteen minutes of the day wondering where the hell I was. Occasionally, I’d get calls from the family saying they were
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