How Hard Can It Be_ - Jeremy Clarkson [29]
Some clubs do allow the dancers to sit on the customers’ knees but these are to be avoided, partly because some of the younger customers are so full of testosterone that physical contact of any kind might cause them to burst. And partly because the Beckis who work in such places tend to be quite big. Get one of those on your lap and, if you’re not careful, you’re going to go home with gangrene.
I’m not stupid. I’m not going to say lap dancers aren’t sexually stimulating. In fact there’s one called Jennifer at a place in Dearborn, Michigan, whom I would describe as very sexually stimulating. But then so is the Polish girl who works at my local Caffè Nero. And so, I’m told, is Richard Hammond. Does that mean we should pixelate his little face on Top Gear tonight?
This new scheme is proof that the machine has gone off its rocker. And you know what scares me most of all? It’s like the internet. We can never turn it off.
Sunday 22 June 2008
Dante’s new hell: my work canteen
Where did you buy your ironing board? You didn’t, did you? You were born with it. Everyone is, which is why everyone has one. I’ve seen tramps in Soho snuggled into shop doorways with nothing to their name except some string, a bin liner and an ironing board. My brother-in-law, who does not believe in possessions, stated proudly when I first met him that he owned nothing. But he was lying, of course. Like everyone, he had a wok. And an ironing board. What’s more, nobody ever thinks: ‘Ooh, my ironing board is getting worn out. I must buy another.’ Nor does anyone suddenly feel the need to upgrade, as they might do with a computer or a mobile phone.
This is why I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised to hear last week that Currys has seen a big fall in profits. Of course it has. It’s ironing board central. If you were to win a trolley dash in one of its branches, you’d scoot off and – after a while – you’d think: ‘Actually, you know what? I’ll just take the trolley.’ Every time I set foot in one of its branches, my head spins with the dreariness of it all. Indeed I came to the conclusion recently that Currys is the only shop in the world that sells absolutely nothing I want to buy. It turns out, however, that I was wrong …
Last month my BBC office was moved to something called a media village in White City, west London. It’s a place where people in thin spectacles gather each day to try to make a difference. Designed by Guardian readers, for Guardian readers, it’s a riot of impenetrable symbolism, concrete and sharp designer fountains, which would be arousing if you had mad hair and a degree in environmental poetry from a Fairtrade, organic peace workshop in Hackney. I don’t see it like that at all, however. In fact, after just a few minutes I began to think that Dante got everything wrong. There are not nine circles of hell. There are ten.
After just one morning in this edgy, pedestrianized, eco-friendly cuboid, I was filled with an overwhelming desire to pile up some old tyres and set them on fire, using diesel. I don’t like vandalism, but if someone were to decorate one of the buildings with a giant purple cock and balls, I’d be tempted to give him a pat on the back and a puppy dog.
Hopefully, I’ve now set the scene. Lots of women sitting around on Ozwald Boateng benches, working out how miserable their next programme can be and whether they can make all the interviewees cry on camera. And me, oiling my machine pistol …
Which brings me to the door of the village’s grab’n’go takeaway cafe. The place where everyone goes for lunch.
Trust me on this. Currys has definitely lost its title as Britain’s