The great confession

I think it has to be done. I can’t hide it any longer, and I’d be foolish not to admit it now and get it out of the way. I like Jeremy Clarkson. In fact, I think he’s very funny.

I shouldn’t like Jeremy Clarkson because as his critics say he’s pretty rude, bordering on racist and says mean things about vegetarians, feminists and … well, anybody he feels like saying mean things about. And that, I have to say, is why I like him. We live in a society of painfully trite do-gooding, especially in Britain where we’re still apologising for having an Empire and basically claiming to be better than everybody else for about 300 years. You have to be nice and supportive of everybody in a manner that is, I hate to say, dreadfully false.

There is a great deal of one-upmanship involved in the new Nice Society. We show off the charities we give to, how small we live. The ones who go vegetarian give their non-vegetarian friends vicious looks as though we were eating babies. The liberal stance claims that we have the right to think as we want, and be what we want – but, it appears, only as long as it accords with one single set of agreed parameters. It’s always good to see somebody breaking the rules.

My great uncle, a man who is as witty as he is wizened, remarked once that in life, one should have everything in moderation, “especially good.” I like having Jeremy Clarkson there, in the world, saying the unsayable things, in the same way that at a Buddhist retreat, my friend and I scarpered from the cold, limp vegan food provided to a restaurant where we had bangers and mash and corned beef hash. At that extreme end of the goodness spectrum, you feel as though you’re dipping babies in boiling oil, but there really is only so much good I can tolerate, which is why I read – and laugh out loud at – Jeremy Clarkson’s columns.