Jeremy Clarkson, patron saint of the Great British bore

In barely a decade he has gone from disgraced Top Gear presenter to beloved guardian of the British countryside, due to the success of Clarkson’s Farm.

The Economist

May 8, 2024 – 8.53am

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Hurtling west along the M40 motorway in a Porsche Taycan, an electric battery on wheels that seemingly teleports between zero and 100km/h, this columnist thought: this does feel like a horse that had just had a mustard-covered hot dog shoved up its backside.

His destination was Diddly Squat, a farm on the edge of the Cotswolds owned by Jeremy Clarkson, television presenter, near-national treasure and coiner of that evocative equine analogy.

In barely a decade, Clarkson has gone from disgraced Top Gear presenter, a man who punched an underling for failing to provide a hot dinner, to strangely beloved guardian of the British countryside and YIMBY (Yes In My Backyard) icon.

This unlikely transformation is due to the success of Clarkson’s Farm, a hit Amazon Prime show that began its third series last week. In the program, Clarkson struggles to breed pigs, break even and defeat NIMBYs (Not In My Backyarders) on the local council.

Jeremy Clarkson on his farm, Diddly Squat, in West Oxfordshire. Amazon Prime

The show appeals to a much-misunderstood figure in British society: the Great British bore.

On a damp Saturday afternoon last month at the Diddly Squat shop, dozens of people queued for half an hour to pay £7.20 ($14) for a jar of pesto and £32 for 12 bottles of Hawkstone Lager, Clarkson’s own brand.

Is it fair to label people enjoying an underwhelming afternoon in the countryside “bores”, your columnist briefly wondered, at which point a man left the queue to inspect the guttering of the farm shop with a little tap.

“Plastic,” he nodded. Yes, it is fair!

Bores come in many forms. Some are farmers. Some are petrol heads. Some supported leaving the EU. Some are casual in their bigotry. Some are climate-sceptic. Some are vociferous NIMBYs.

These are the traditional bores. But other bores exist.

A Brexit supporter outside Britain’s Houses of Parliament in 2019. Clarkson voted to remain. Getty

Some are furious that Britain has left the European Union, and will never cease to let you know how angry they are. Some are eco-warriors, putting biodiversity before people. Some bores believe building solves every problem. Somehow, Clarkson manages to speak for all of them.

Clarkson’s appeal to the traditional bore is more obvious. For years, he has revelled in the persona of a particular type of bore.

On Top Gear, the car show that was the archetype of bore-friendly television, he was a bigot in boot-cut jeans, picking fights with cyclists, the Mexican ambassador and, in that unfortunate moment, his own staff.

In his columns for the Sunday Times, he tore into local councils, health-and-safety rules and the Welsh. The connecting principle was a distrust of authority, which lurked at the heart of many a Leave vote.

When it comes to climate, Clarkson’s views speak to sceptical bores and blase bores. His opinions on Greta Thunberg are negative and more than a little disturbing (“what she needs is a smacked bottom”).

He is a man who winces at the thought of driving an electric sports car (“it still sounds like a milk float”), however fast it goes.

Downing Street welcomed the cast

Farming bores appreciate him, too. Usually, hobbyist farmers are held in low regard. But British farmers have probably the least political clout of all their European peers.

In an inversion of most countries’ priorities, the industry is among the first to be stuffed when it comes to trade negotiations.

Such is the clout of Clarkson’s Farm, in contrast, that Downing Street welcomed the cast to lobby on behalf of British farmers.

Other bores have had to learn to love him. Clarkson is now an unlikely pin-up for young liberal bores who insist that planning law is the cause of, and solution to, all of Britain’s problems.

His incessant struggle with West Oxfordshire District Council to open a restaurant on his land, and to keep the shop open, provides the narrative arc for much of Clarkson’s Farm.

It also shows the capriciousness of Britain’s planning system, with decisions made on a whim by councillors elected on a turnout of 30 per cent.

For these bores, a Britain that builds is the route to salvation. St Jeremy’s struggle makes him the perfect martyr.

Some bores are surprised to find Clarkson on their side. Rejoining the EU is at the heart of the nouvelle bore movement.

Raging against the Brexit status quo

Bores are fundamentally reactionary, raging against the status quo. Now that Britain has left the bloc, the Brexit bores are sated; the puce fury of Remainer bores has just begun.

It took Nigel Farage and a cabal of right-wing Conservative MPs, uber-bores all, three decades to drag Britain out of the EU. If their Remainer bore rivals have a plan to take Britain back in, Clarkson would be the perfect mascot.

Nearly three in five Britons think Clarkson voted Leave, according to polling from Focaldata, a research outfit. In reality, he voted Remain.

In fact, he once argued for a United States of Europe. If there is a path to rejoining the EU, it runs along the A361 next to Diddly Squat farm.

Clarkson offers something for every bore in Britain.

He is a YIMBY who sees it as his God-given right to open a restaurant on his land, West Oxfordshire District Council be damned. But he also understands the merits of wildflower meadows and wants to leave rolling countryside mainly untouched.

He is a conservationist who fears for the future of British farming in the face of climate change. But he also has 10 V8s in the garage.

He is a European federalist who enjoyed well-paid berths at the Sun and the Sunday Times, both Leave-supporting newspapers.

He speaks for Britain

Which is why, on a Saturday afternoon, bores join a slow-moving queue outside a small shed on the edge of the Cotswolds.

Like medieval pilgrims, bores young and old come in their gas-guzzling Golfs, shiny Teslas and fancy Porsches to enjoy half a day in the countryside, pay homage to their hero and buy a relic.

In lieu of Christ’s foreskin, why not try “Jeremy’s Sausage” (£4.50 for four)?

In a country where politicians still seek the centre ground, a good place to start looking is the incoherence of Clarkson. After all, he who speaks for the bore speaks for Britain.

The Economist