How Hard Can It Be_ - Jeremy Clarkson [75]
Apparently the tortoise that was handed in at the Bolton centre had kidney stones because of dehydration. Again. Not a problem. Just give it some water. It doesn’t even need to be Hildon or Evian. What’s more, tortoises are tough little bastards.
When I was a kid I had two. Gilbert and Squeak (Sullivan and Bubble died) both escaped one night into a neighbouring field of wheat, where they survived a combine harvester and the burning of the stubble.
Naturally, I have a tortoise today and I have calculated how much he costs to keep every year. In the summer he lazes about in the garden eating dandelions, and in the winter he sleeps so soundly that I use him as a chock for my classic Mercedes. The final bill, then, is nought. Actually, it’s less than nought because without him I’d have to get the Merc’s handbrake repaired. Henry is in fact saving me money.
And best of all, he will live to be 1,000, which means we won’t face the same sort of sobbing we had from the children when the vet, for just £30, said the pet mouse had a tumour and would surely die.
For many reasons, then, the tortoise is the ideal recessionary pet. Your other animals, I’m afraid, will have to be left on the central reservation of the M5. It’s something I’ve known for a while. The sort of socialism being practised now by Darling and Brown ultimately kills people’s dogs.
Sunday 3 May 2009
Change fast, before we all gag on the fabric of British life
Last week a million dewy-eyed fools were celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the Mini, the small car that symbolizes everything that’s been wrong with Britain since Hitler poisoned his dog.
I do not wish to dwell on cars here but it’s important to stress that, back in 1959, for all sorts of oily reasons, the little Austin was very clever. France had its Citroën 2CV. Germany had its Volkswagen Beetle. Russia had its ox. And we had the Mini, the best-packaged, most fun personal transport module of them all.
And then the British did what the British did best. Nothing. The Mini was therefore crap by 1965, but despite this it was still being made as the twenty-first century dawned, by which time it was as out of date as a Norman keep. And I have the distinct impression that, if BMW hadn’t bought the company, it would still be churning them out today. Gramophones in a flatscreen world.
It’s much the same story with the Land Rover. Designed just after the war, it is still being sold to farmers and the British Army, where it sits in the modern theatre like a medieval trebuchet. So why hasn’t it been replaced with something that has space for a driver’s shoulder? Oh, because that would be like tearing down Anne Hathaway’s cottage. It’s part of the fabric of British life.
Of course it is. Anything becomes the fabric of your life if it hangs around long enough. Your old dog with its anal warts. The leaky pipe in your spare room. Even syphilis can become part of the fabric of your life if you don’t go to the doctor’s.
Look at the Royal Navy. Tony Blair announced in 1998 that we needed some new aircraft carriers. But there was so much fannying-about that the contract to get the process going wasn’t signed until 2008. Ten years later. You’d imagine of course that before the ink on the paperwork was dry, the companies charged with building these new carriers would be up and running. But no. Here we are in 2009 and there’s still no keel. And of course, pretty soon, parliament will turn round and explain that our old carriers, which chug around on one engine to save fuel, have become part of the fabric of British life and, as such, cannot be decommissioned.
Look round the back of any public building and you’ll note the plumbing, and the paint, was installed in about 1951 and has not been upgraded since. Battersea power station is still there, producing no power, or indeed anything at all. And