The other day, for reasons I would rather not go into, I typed “Jeremy Clarkson” into Google. I would hope it goes without saying that it was not for sexual purposes but, just to clarify, it was not for sexual purposes. At all.
Anyway, when you Google Jeremy Clarkson an interesting (albeit unsurprising) thing happens: a little piece of your soul erodes. But also, Piers Morgan and Jeremy Kyle come up as related searches.
Christ, what a cluster of unspeakable bastards. Just imagine being at a dinner party with that loathsome trio. If you could make it past the entrees without attempting to fashion a noose from your own belt then you’re a stronger person than most.
Between them they possess the absolute worst characteristics of the archetypal middle-aged, middle-class English man: a sense of self-importance disproportionate with one’s own achievements (Morgan), casual racism (Clarkson) and an utter contempt for the working class (Kyle).
But, after pausing briefly to wipe my internet search history and vomit into the nearest bin, it got me thinking about which of them I hate the most.
This may sound like a fairly clear-cut choice, but it’s actually impossible to identify which of the three is worse given that they all operate on completely different stratospheres of obnoxiousness. It makes Sophie’s Choice look like a straightforward exercise.
Arguably the most offensive, Clarkson seems to play up to his carefully contrived media persona of the politically incorrect, culturally insensitive moron. He patently trades off this act, which is now wearing so thin as to be rendered entirely unconvincing to anyone with half a brain, which rules out anyone who has ever watched Top Gear (even by mistake) or read one of his thoroughly objectionable articles in The Sunday Times. This raises an important philosophical question: is it worse to actually be a twat, or to just pretend to be a twat for money? Regardless, I think we can all agree Clarkson is a twat.
Clarkson apologists defend their man by claiming he’s just “telling it like it is”, or “saying what we’re all thinking”. But that really isn’t the case. If I thought for one minute that I shared a single opinion with Jeremy Clarkson, I would kill myself on the spot.
Morgan appears to revel in the fact that he is hated, so in many ways to hate him is to give him exactly what he wants. And I don’t want to give him what he wants. I want him to be as miserable as he deserves to be, which in my opinion is very miserable indeed. If there was any justice in this life, which there manifestly isn’t, Piers Morgan would wake up every morning cursing his own existence. But he doesn’t do that, does he? He just sits there, basking in his own perceived brilliance with that nauseating smirk on his face. He’s not even remotely apologetic about being alive.
Since being sacked from just about every newspaper/broadcasting job for a variety of misdemeanours, Morgan now fills his (presumably miserable) days trolling Twitter and trying to bait other more successful celebrities into pointless, inane arguments. I mean, it’s a life of sorts…but it’s not really living, is it?
Of the three, Jeremy Kyle probably comes across as the most normal. I can’t believe I’m even typing this, but if I had to choose one of them to go for a drink with, and I mean absolutely had to, I would probably choose him. Even though I get the impression that he’d spend the entire evening telling me about how Britain was better under Thatcher, pausing intermittently to sneer at a poor person. He’s a man of mediocre talent, sure, but he’s just more creepy than anything else. To hate him almost seems churlish. Then again, this is a man who makes his living by publicly shaming people for not living their lives according to his draconian moral code. He’s a crypto-fascist in a cheap suit.
I don’t know, they’re just such awful people that the very thought overwhelms me. This has truly defeated me.
With no end in sight, I’m forced to conclude that if I were locked in a room with those three, armed with a pistol with only one bullet, I would probably put the gun to my own head. Death would be a welcome respite from the throng of cheap suits, unsubstantiated opinion and ill-fitting denim.
And that, my friends, is the unyielding power of hate.
