Read Online The World According to Clarkson by Jeremy Clarkson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeremy Clarkson
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We’re not even programmed to enjoy parties that much. Think. When you were little you liked your teddy and you liked your mum, but other children were the enemy. You were forced to go, and sat on your bottom waiting to be humiliated by someone saying: ‘Oh dear. Who’s had a little accident then?’
You always have little accidents at parties. No sooner are you out of nappies than you’re straight into the flowerbed where the hostess’s mother finds you face down at dawn. And then when you’re married, you get in huge trouble for dancing with the wrong girl in the wrong way for too long.
I mention all this because three weeks ago I caught the perfect illness. There was no pain, just an overwhelmingneed to lie in bed all day eating comfort food and watching
Battle of the Bulge.
I was enjoying myself very much, but halfway through the afternoon my wife tired of popping upstairs with trays of quails’ eggs and mushroom soup and, with that hands-on-hips way that wives have when their husbands are not very ill, announced that I should get up and organise a party for her fortieth birthday. ‘You have 21 days.’
My first chance to have a little accident came with the invitations. Every morning we get invites but we have no idea who they are from or where the party is being held because the typeface is a meaningless collection of squirls, and all the instructions at the bottom are in French. RSVP.
I thought the solution would be simple. Write in block capitals and use English. But oh no. Nowadays, it’s important to make your invitation stand out on the mantelpiece, so it must be written on an ingot or a CD-Rom or on a man’s naked bottom.
The printer was quite taken aback when I asked for card. ‘Card?’ he said. ‘Gosh, that really is unusual.’ And then he gave me an estimate: ‘For 150 invites, sir, that will be £6.2 million. Or you could go down to Prontaprint and have exactly the same thing for 12p.’ Right.
The next problem is deciding on a dress code. What you’re supposed to do these days is dream up a snappy phrase such as ‘Dress to thrill’ or ‘Urban gothic’, but since none of our friends would have the first clue what any of this meant, I put ‘No corduroy’.
With just two weeks to go I called a party organiser to help out with the event itself. ‘All we want,’ I explained, ‘is a bit of canvas to keep the wind off everyone’s vol-au-vents.’
Well, it doesn’t work out like that because he sits you down and says that you really ought to have some kind of flooring. It’s only £170. So you say fine. And then he says that electricity might be a good idea, too. It’s only £170. Everything is only £170, so you end up ordering the lot.
When the estimate came, I really was ill. ‘What would you like?’ asked my wife, seeing that this time I wasn’t faking. ‘Some fish fingers? A nourishing bowl of chicken soup?
Where Eagles Dare?
’ No. What I want is for everyone we’ve invited to come over all dead.
It was not to be. With a week to go, only six had had the decency to say no and the next day, two changed their minds.
Except, of course, we hadn’t heard a whisper from anyone who has ever appeared on television. It is a known fact that once you’ve been on the electric fish-tank, even if it’s just for a moment in a Dixons shop window, you lose the ability to reply to party invitations.
So you’ve got the caterers asking how many they should cook for and you’re having to say they’d better get Jesus in the kitchen because it could be five or it could be five thousand.
Then the guests start telephoning asking what they should wear instead of corduroy and where they can stay. Here’s a tip. When you’re looking for a hotel inChipping Norton, you’re more likely to find out what’s good and what’s not by calling someone in Glasgow. People who live in Chipping Norton usually have no need of local hotels. And I don’t care what you wear. And yes, your
We’re not even programmed to enjoy parties that much. Think. When you were little you liked your teddy and you liked your mum, but other children were the enemy. You were forced to go, and sat on your bottom waiting to be humiliated by someone saying: ‘Oh dear. Who’s had a little accident then?’
You always have little accidents at parties. No sooner are you out of nappies than you’re straight into the flowerbed where the hostess’s mother finds you face down at dawn. And then when you’re married, you get in huge trouble for dancing with the wrong girl in the wrong way for too long.
I mention all this because three weeks ago I caught the perfect illness. There was no pain, just an overwhelmingneed to lie in bed all day eating comfort food and watching
Battle of the Bulge.
I was enjoying myself very much, but halfway through the afternoon my wife tired of popping upstairs with trays of quails’ eggs and mushroom soup and, with that hands-on-hips way that wives have when their husbands are not very ill, announced that I should get up and organise a party for her fortieth birthday. ‘You have 21 days.’
My first chance to have a little accident came with the invitations. Every morning we get invites but we have no idea who they are from or where the party is being held because the typeface is a meaningless collection of squirls, and all the instructions at the bottom are in French. RSVP.
I thought the solution would be simple. Write in block capitals and use English. But oh no. Nowadays, it’s important to make your invitation stand out on the mantelpiece, so it must be written on an ingot or a CD-Rom or on a man’s naked bottom.
The printer was quite taken aback when I asked for card. ‘Card?’ he said. ‘Gosh, that really is unusual.’ And then he gave me an estimate: ‘For 150 invites, sir, that will be £6.2 million. Or you could go down to Prontaprint and have exactly the same thing for 12p.’ Right.
The next problem is deciding on a dress code. What you’re supposed to do these days is dream up a snappy phrase such as ‘Dress to thrill’ or ‘Urban gothic’, but since none of our friends would have the first clue what any of this meant, I put ‘No corduroy’.
With just two weeks to go I called a party organiser to help out with the event itself. ‘All we want,’ I explained, ‘is a bit of canvas to keep the wind off everyone’s vol-au-vents.’
Well, it doesn’t work out like that because he sits you down and says that you really ought to have some kind of flooring. It’s only £170. So you say fine. And then he says that electricity might be a good idea, too. It’s only £170. Everything is only £170, so you end up ordering the lot.
When the estimate came, I really was ill. ‘What would you like?’ asked my wife, seeing that this time I wasn’t faking. ‘Some fish fingers? A nourishing bowl of chicken soup?
Where Eagles Dare?
’ No. What I want is for everyone we’ve invited to come over all dead.
It was not to be. With a week to go, only six had had the decency to say no and the next day, two changed their minds.
Except, of course, we hadn’t heard a whisper from anyone who has ever appeared on television. It is a known fact that once you’ve been on the electric fish-tank, even if it’s just for a moment in a Dixons shop window, you lose the ability to reply to party invitations.
So you’ve got the caterers asking how many they should cook for and you’re having to say they’d better get Jesus in the kitchen because it could be five or it could be five thousand.
Then the guests start telephoning asking what they should wear instead of corduroy and where they can stay. Here’s a tip. When you’re looking for a hotel inChipping Norton, you’re more likely to find out what’s good and what’s not by calling someone in Glasgow. People who live in Chipping Norton usually have no need of local hotels. And I don’t care what you wear. And yes, your
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