Jeremy never thought a Mercedes DTM C-Class would cause aches in his groin. While he raced the car around the streets of London for his show’s O2 event, the engine’s vibrations shook his muscles so violently that three Jamaican assistants had to squeeze him out of the car.
“For fuck’s sake, be careful!” Jeremy shouted. “Do you know who I am?”
His limousine drove him back to his terrace house on Courtnell Street. Bloody hell, he thought, it feels like a elephant stepped on my chopper. Jeremy grabbed a bottle of scotch from the limousine’s wet bar and poured himself a glass, clean and neat. He took his Android from this jacket pocket and dialed his help.
“Get the steam ready. I will be home in 15 minutes. It better be as steamy as Nigeria when I get there.”
The London Friday traffic was unusually light for February. His team had just wrapped up Season 8 for the BBC and was beginning to test concepts for Season 9. When he was asked to host the show in 2002, Jeremy and the producers were desperate. The show’s ratings were miserable so they had quickly devised a plan to revive it: bring in two younger hosts and start poking fun of anything and anyone. So they did. Everyone was fair game, from stinky Italians, snobby Frenchman, boorish Germans and greedy, fat Americans. All of sudden, Jeremy was loved again. He knew early in the show’s second season that he was on to something when he couldn’t even watch the FA Cup Final at Millenium Stadium without being approached for an autograph every minute. Bugger off, he would say, can’t you see I would like to watch the bloody match? It’s fucking Chelsea and Arsenal.
350 million viewers and millions of pounds later, Jeremy and his lads were the new emperors of the BBC. The praise came from all over the world. Geeks from Mumbai had created apps that made him 30% for each download. A group of elderly Australians sent him homemade pies via overnight parcel, even though he would just have his assistant take the packages and crush them in the rubbish. And the communists, the crazy left Labour socialists who would campaign against him through their liberal snobbish publications? Jeremy would always snicker. They might have their shitty rags. He was a bloody columnist for The Sun.
“Mr. Clarkson, your steam bath is ready,” said Mrs. Lee, Jeremy’s house maid and general lady of all trades. She had already opened the doors of the limousine while Jeremy slid his body out of the back seat, grimacing in pain.
“Fuck, my bloody chopper! Just get me to the steam!”
Jeremy limped his way to his house, a four-bedroom home where he live for the few months he was in London and wasn’t traveling all over the world. This year, the producers suggested that he and the lads do shows in China, Vietnam, the Philippines, and Thailand. As long as they get me a chinky whore for my troubles, Jeremy thought, I would travel to Mars on a bloody scooter.
With Mrs. Lee following behind him, Jeremy walked through the open door of his home and started to go up the stairs. Just then, his Android’s Rolling Stones Limited Exclusive Ring Tone sounded. Today’s tone was”Sympathy for the Devil.” Jeremy glanced at the caller ID. Fuck, it’s Smith. Smith never calls. What in hell does he want? Jeremy took a breath before clicking in.
“Johnny lad, how goes it?”
“Jerry, we are getting 200 complaints a minute right now. Most of them are still coming in from Mexico, but now we get the Yanks chiming in. It’s getting bad.”
“It’s great publicity, John. I mean, I think we can get 400 million viewers this year all because of those two minutes. Ha! And you said we couldn’t get any bigger before we fucking take over China next year.”
“The show’s not running in America, Jerry. I don’t need some looney greasers picketing on CNN and FOX. That is all we bloody need.”
“Who the fuck cares?”
“You need to write an apology, Jerry. Richard has already written his. And Coogan’s piece shitting all over you three is on the front page of The Guardian tonight.”
“Coogan is a wanker.”
“He’s also popular here, Jerry. This is no longer about some Mexicans, this thing is not going away. Write the apology. Publish it in your column this Sunday.”
“Fine, I will apologise.” Jeremy snickered.
“Fuck, Jerry, this is serious. Be sincere this time. They are all over you online. Every minute the great Jeremy Clarkson is called every slur in the Spanisn language. And I think they are starting to appear in Portuguese. Jerry, do you know how many Mexicans watch the show? 10 million. 10 million. And I am not even counting streaming in Latin America. Just apologise. And next time just mock the French. No one likes the fucking French.”
“Sure, John, I will offer my most sincerest apologies, my liege.”
“You know what the contract says.”
“How bloody dare you, John. Is that a threat? Who in hell saved the fucking BBC?”
“Write the apology, Superman. We’ll lunch on Sunday. Cheers.”
Jeremy headed back down the stairs, past his marble floors and chef’s kitchen, the countless TV awards from all over globe, his picture at last year’s World Cup with Beckham, Gerrard, and Rooney. He arrived at his study and powered up his laptop. An apology, he thought, they will get their apology.
Why doesn’t Mexico have an Olympic team? It’s because everyone there who can run, jump or swim is already across the border.
This piece is of course fictional in nature. And yes, I can take a joke, but you can decide for yourself by viewing the video below.