How Hard Can It Be_ - Jeremy Clarkson [1]
Ring a ring o’ clipboards – we all fall down
The world will never be safe until Scrabble is banned
Run for cover – Pooh the Dark Knight is coming
Get another round in, lads – we’ve got some pubs to save
Come quick, Nurse – the NHS is going frightfully green
I dare you to visit Johannesburg, the city for softies
Class-A cocoa, the powder of choice on my crock’n’roll tour
I’m starting divorce proceedings in this special relationship
You’re a bunch of overpaid nancies – and I love you
Stand still, wimp – only failures run off to be expats
It’s pure hell in the mountainous Cotswold region
What a difference now I’ve stopped drinking fish fingers
Gordon the ass is stomping over everyone’s pets
Change fast, before we all gag on the fabric of British life
Okay, you’ve got me bang to rights – I’m a secret green
I’ll be right there, Sir Ranulph – must conquer the sofa first
Letting beavers loose in Scotland is a dam-fool idea
Say cheese, darling – I’ll stick on your horse’s ears later
Now there’s a first – my elephant has just exploded
No, I won’t wear a tiara, if it’s all the same to you
I’m not superstitious, Officer, but it’s bad karma to harry a druid
After three brushes with death in planes I want a parachute
Just one word and my T-shirt offends the whole of Japan
Stop, you’re digging an early grave with that garden trowel
The conquerors are coming, Pierre – we Brits need more land
Soaking up the raw emotion of the best beetroot contest
Nurse! The OAP mods are bashing the wrinkly rockers
Dr Useless, what’s the Canadian word for ‘lousy care’?
It’s just not fair – donkeys get all the breaks
Forget Antigua, 007 – all the real action is in Acacia Avenue
Mad Johnny Baa Lamb is here to save the pit bulls
Up to the waist in Brown’s slurry on my new farm
Help, quick – I’ve unscrewed the top on a ticking bomb
Cleverness is no more. It has ceased to be. This is a dumb Britain
I’ve got a solution for the rainforest: napalm the lot
Get me a rope before Mandelson wipes us all out
Stop the game, ref. We’re all too cross to play by the rules
Call me a spoilsport but I’m glad my dad wasn’t a lesbian
I’m so dead – shot by both sides in the website war
Sing about the fat man again and I’ll shoot Tiny Tim
The BA strike is off – so that’s many a Christmas ruined
So, Piggy, Buttocks and Rat – what shall we call Gordon?
Clear off, nitwit – I’ll rebuild this hospital
Hello and a very happy new year to you all, especially if you are reading this on Rugby railway station wondering why all the tracks are still in the ground waiting to be turned from iron ore into something on which a train one day might run. Or conversely, you might be at Birmingham International pondering the vexing question of why the whole thing had to be shut down for two hours because of what the emergency services called a ‘small fire’ in a nearby cafe.
Well, I am afraid the answer is simple. In the olden days, all that stood between the bosses and the work being done was the trade union movement. And the unions could be silenced most of the time with a corned-beef sandwich and a vague promise of some jam tomorrow for the workforce.
Not any more. Now, when you want to get something done, the union boys are the least of your worries. Because you must also ensure that no Muslims or gingers are upset in any way by what you’re planning, that no creatures, even if they are rubbish ones like snails or foxes, will be dislodged, that you won’t make any unnecessary carbon dioxides, that all those involved will wear orange clothes, hard hats and boots made from box-girder bridges, that they are all as sober as a Sunday-best Swede and that, should a small fire break out within 200 miles, provisions are in place to send everyone home for at least a year.
That’s before you go to the government, which gives you £2.50 to replace every railway line in the country because all the rest of the money it gets each year is being spent on arresting Pete Doherty and holding public inquiries into how it lost the medical records, banking details,