Is It Really Too Much to Ask?

BOOK: Is It Really Too Much to Ask?
Jeremy Clarkson
The World According to Clarkson
Volume Five

Hounded by the ash cloud on my escape

Help, Mr Spock, I need you to pilot my hi-tech new flat

Traffic storm troopers won't let me buy a bra

Roll up to look at my pebbles – just £5 a ticket

Madam Minister, your briefs are full of flirty, dirty talk

Sheep are the robbers' new bullion

Please, carry on filming, I'm only burning to death

Surgery to solve the deficit – cut off Scotland

Give to my new charity – Britain's Got Trouble

No prison for you – just lick my cesspit clean

Move along, officer, it's just a spot of dogging

Burial? Cremation? Boil-in-the-bag?

Don't misread the whiff of Cameron's armpits

A few song lyrics could have done for Piers

England's fate is in your hands, Ambassador

Concussion is what holidays are all about

I've sprayed wasps with glue, now what?

Naughty bits & melons – I learnt it all in Albania

Beware – Arabella won't stop at hay rustling

One dose of this and you could turn into a werewolf

But I've killed Baz already, Mr Safety Instructor

This tired old bird deserves another chance

Just speak English, Johnny Europe

Turkey joining the EU? Over my dead dog's body

No one needs to know their adze from their elbow

Use Jordan and Jemima to sell Britain

Foraging – an old country word for violent death

WikiLeaks – I dare you to face Roger Sensible

Stop all the clocks for British No Time

The small society built on jam and dung

Proud to sponsor this police shootout

Hello, reception. I've actually used my bed, please don't be angry

This kingdom needs a dose of Norse sense

Big smile – and check me down below for ticks

Cancel the breast op and buy an iron lung

A man's ego hangs in his downstairs loo

We didn't have an affair – and that's all you need to be told

Garçon! A hike in my flat's value, please

A quake's nothing until it becomes a wobbly iDisaster

I'm going to cure dumb Britain

Advice for men – don't try to keep your hair on

We demand our weekends back, Adolf Handlebar

Houston, our spaceships are ugly

Look what that little DVD pirate is really doing

Dear BBC, why d'ya think Dick Whittington gave Salford a miss?

Okay, I'll come clean on Rebekah and the Chipping Norton plot

Okay, tontine tango birdie, let's baffle 'em with insider talk

Get on your roof, everyone, and give Biggles an eyeful

That's it – one fluffed backhand and I'm broken as a father

French porn and a little software can save our schools

Oh, Berbatovs – I've got to learn footballspeak

My daughter and I stepped over the body and into a brothel

Own up, we all had a vile streak long before going online

Down, boy! Fido's fallen in love with the vacuum cleaner

Street lights and binmen? Luxuries we just can't afford

Ker-ching! I've got a plan to turn India's pollution into pounds

Look out, dear, a carbuncle is heading your way

Oh, the vita is dolce. But the music? Shaddap you face

Down periscope! I've found an airtight way to quit smoking

No more benefits: I'm putting the idle on the bread and sherry line

I walked tall into Savile Row – and left a broken man

Harry's chopper makes mincemeat of Will's whirlybird

Daily Mail
scoop: I'm a nurse-killing Hitler in blue jeans

My RAF training was dull – until I got to bomb Piers Morgan

A Commons or garden blunder by the duke of digging

No, Fido, the law says you can eat Raffles – not Postman Pat

Skis on, break a leg … and take Sarko to the cleaners

We've got a million words for sex but not one for best friend

Carry on sniping at the rich, Ed, and I just might steal your seat

Having to sell the family silver – it's comedy gold

Listen, officer, that gravy boat is the key to Whitney's death

Lord Lucan must be dead – no one can escape YouTube

Those pesky stars just won't expose themselves any more

Three men go into a bar … and I couldn't hear the punchline

Even James ‘Thunder' May couldn't make wind farms work

Smell my cologne: it's called Girlie Tosh pour Homme

A cheap booze ban will just drive your pooch to hooch

Exploding Art Snob – it's the best Hirst masterpiece yet

Where's the Dunkirk spirit? Doing a runner to Australia

Welcome to the fifty-fourth series of
Top Gear
. I'm seventy-seven, you know

Heston's grub is great – but so what if your date is ugly?

One hundred lines, Miliband Minor: ‘I must not show off in class'

Girls, gongs and JR – if only I'd worn a jockstrap

I'm desperate to be a German – call me Gunther Good-Loser

Go on, troll me – but leave your name and address

Kaboom! It's my turn to play fantasy climate change

They've read Milton, Mr Gove, now get 'em to rewire a plug

Blow me up, Scotty, before I land on your Manx home

And your premium bond prize is … a seat in the Lords

Cheer up, Mewling Murray, you've made it into
Boohoo's Who

We're all running as Team GB, the grim bellyachers

Stop, or I'll shoot … about 100 yards off to your right

Listen, Fritz, we'll do the efficiency now – you write the gags

Arise, Sir Jeremy – defier of busybody croupiers and barmen

P-p-please open up, Arkwright, I need some t-t-t-trousers

Oh, my head hurts – I've a bad case of hangover envy

If breasts are no big deal, girls, don't get them reupholstered

Call me Comrade Clarkson, liberator of the jobsworths

If foreigners weren't watching, we'd be lynching bell-ringers

Take another step, Simba, and you'll feel my foldaway spoon

So, the Scouts came to earth in a reptilian space plane, right?

This lanky git will call you what he wants, ref – you blind idiot

Chew on a Big Mac with fibs before you answer a survey

Yes, siree – count me in for genocide and conservatory-building

Coming soon,
I'm a Terrorist … Make Me Lick Nadine's Toes

Write in now, eel fanciers, and claim your million quid

Of all the towns in all the world, Cold, Wet and Closed is best

Help, I've lost track of world affairs in Bradley's barnet

Stand by, Earth, to boldly look where there's no point looking

Dim staff and no stock: the key to hanging on in the high street

Forget the cat and the pension, wrinklies, a gap year beckons

Your next HS2 service is the 3.15 to Victorian England

Oh, waiter, can I pay with this microchipped finger?

Hello, sailor. Show me what Britain is really made of

Work on the accent, Brum, and Tom Cruise will be in for a balti

As Russians say, manners maketh the British late

Follow Penguin

By the same author


Jeremy Clarkson's Hot 100

Jeremy Clarkson's Planet Dagenham

Born to be Riled

Clarkson on Cars

The World According to Clarkson

I Know You Got Soul

And Another Thing

Don't Stop Me Now

For Crying Out Loud!

Driven to Distraction

How Hard Can It Be?

Round the Bend

The Top Gear Years

In loving memory of Caro

The contents of this book first appeared in Jeremy Clarkson's
Sunday Times
column. Read more about the world according to Clarkson every week in the
Sunday Times

15.4Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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