And another thing--: the world according to Clarkson (6 page)

Still, the HSE says that simple cost-effective steps can be taken to ensure that nobody trips. Spillages, they say, must be managed, suitable footwear should be fitted, effective matting systems must be used, offices must be redesigned and workers must be retrained. Cost-effective? How can it be when the staff do nothing all day except work to stay upright?

Health and safety is now so out of control that I find it nearly impossible to do my job. Certainly the series I made a few years ago called
Extreme Machines
simply couldn’t be produced today.

Back then, we gave the sound recordist a heart attack when we asked him to abseil off an oil tanker at 3 a.m. in the middle of a Cape of Good Hope storm. We put the cameraman in such a position that he fell off a 1,000-bhp swamp buggy in Florida and then, after we got the mud out of his lungs, we wedged him in a two-seat Spitfire that ran out of fuel at 5,000 feet.

I climbed into drag-racing snowmobiles and fighter jets without a moment’s thought. Yes, it was dangerous, but it was fun. We knew the risks and we took them because a) it was a laugh, and b) hopefully it made great telly.

Nowadays, though, producers must fill in a hazard assessment form before they go on a shoot. They have to show that they’ve thought about all the safety implications
and if there’s a breach, they – not the BBC – are liable. Result: they won’t take any risks at all.

On
Top Gear
, we refer to the Health and Safety people as the PPD. The Programme Prevention Department.

Sunday 11 April 2004

Oh no. The government has begun a four-month consultation period to see if weekend sailors pottering about on the Solent or the Norfolk Broads should be stopped and breathalysed.

Now, I can see that it might be difficult to drive a tank while under the influence of heroin. And I understand that Huw Edwards would find it tricky to read the Autocue if he were off his face on acid. But sailing a boat, on the sea, after a few wines? I’m sorry, but that doesn’t sound hard at all.

Sure, there was the case of the drunken Icelandic trawlerman who crashed into a British couple’s yacht, causing damage that cost £25,000 to put right. A year later he sailed over to apologise and, having drunk some wine on the voyage, crashed into their boat again.

I think that’s quite funny, but of course those of a busybodying disposition won’t.

And then they will point to the recent case of a captain who smashed his dredger into the pier at Hythe, having downed six pints of lager. The Methodist Mariners will also mention ‘drunken yobs’ on jet skis terrorising swimmers.

All very worthy, I’m sure, but unfortunately the consultation paper also implies that ordinary sailors will be entangled in the legislation. And that would be a shame.

Only the other day I went for a small sail. We set off at the obligatory 45 degrees, an angle at which it’s impossible to drink, as your glass keeps falling off the table. And anyway, every time you fancy a swig, the captain decides to ‘go about’ or ‘gybe’ and you have to rush around pulling the wrong rope.

Still, at lunchtime, we parked, broke out the rum punches (it was Barbados) and spent the afternoon getting plastered in the sunshine. Is this not what sailing’s all about?

Certainly, Olivier de Kersauson, the eminent French yachtsman, thinks that’s what the British do. He took me out on his huge trimaran a couple of years ago and explained why all the big races and records are won and broken by French and American people these days.

It’s a far cry from 1759, when our navy pounced on the French fleet as it attempted to break the blockade. In the ensuing battle off Quiberon, Britannia really did rule the waves.

But not any more, and de Kersauson thinks he knows why. ‘These days, you British all sit around in your yacht clubs, in your silly blazers, drinking gin and tonics. No one actually goes out there and sails,’ he said.

So, new drink-drive limits for sailors may put us back on the map vis-à-vis the Jules Verne Trophy, but there must be more to it than that.

What, though? It’s not as if Britain is out of step with the rest of the world. So far, only Finland has placed alcohol restrictions on sailors but no one has been arrested yet because the police can’t think how the law might be enforced.

We’d have a similar problem here. It would, inevitably, be the job of the Hampshire police to cruise around on the Solent, but I feel sure that senior officers could find better things for the force to do than harass Colonel Bufton Tufton for taking a sherry on his Fairline Targa 48.

Furthermore, who would be deemed responsible? Certainly, if I were to be apprehended by the River Filth while weaving out of Cowes harbour, I’d say my completely sober five-year-old daughter was in charge. Then I’d invite them to go away and catch some burglars.

There are a quarter of a million shipwrecks off the coast of Britain, and almost all of them were caused by one of four things: incompetence, bad weather, the French, or the Germans. Banning alcohol from the high seas to save lives is therefore pointless.

Perhaps it was dreamt up because the infernal health-and-safety, fresh-air, vegetarian Nazis are running out of ways to make our lives miserable on land. But why is it being seriously considered?

To get an answer, we need to think about the potential punishment. You cannot remove a sailor’s licence if he’s found to be drunk because he doesn’t have one.

And you cannot realistically send Bufton Tufton to jail for sailing while under the influence of Harvey’s Bristol Cream.

The only realistic punishment is a fine and there you have the appeal for Tony’s slack-jawed sidekick in No. 11. Explain that drinking and sailing must be outlawed ‘to save children’s lives’ and watch the money come rolling in. It’s the speed-camera syndrome. Tell us that speed kills, then ‘tax’ us when we’re caught proving it doesn’t.

That said, I would be enormously peeved if I were the winchman on a rescue helicopter, dangling on a rope in atrocious weather trying to save the skipper of an upturned yacht who kept saying ‘You’re my best mate,’ and, ‘I f****** love you.’

There is a way round this one, though. Rescued sailors who turn out to be drunk should be made to pay for the cost of plucking them to safety. This way, the fine would serve a purpose and there’d be no need for pricey police patrols.

What’s more, the freedom of the open seas would still be a blessed relief for those who, like me, increasingly believe we’re no longer living in a free country.

Sunday 18 April 2004

There is no doubt that, economically speaking, the country’s in rude good health at the moment. We have lower unemployment than most other major industrialised nations, we have among the highest house prices in the world, we are drowning in venture capital, and we are all fat.

When pushed, many experts credit Gordon Brown for the endless parade of good news stories, thanking the good Lord that we have his canny, cunning, dour, Presbyterian, wily, Scottish hand on the tiller.

Rubbish. Britain’s metamorphosis from lame duck to golden goose has nothing to do with Brown and everything to do with your eating habits at lunchtime.

In the olden days, people used to go to the canteen on the dot of one to unwind with mates over a plate of something big in pastry. Now everyone gets their lunch from the Grab ’n’ Go shop.

Do they have Grab ’n’ Go shops in Italy? I rather think not. Over there, they’re still downing a couple of bottles of wine at lunchtime, and then sleeping it off until six.

If we do go out for lunch in Britain, it’s only an excuse to get some more work done. And so is dinner, and so, increasingly, is breakfast. In fact, we’re running out of meals over which we can do deals. Soon, people will be buying and selling products over a midnight feast.

And who drinks at lunchtime any more? The other day, in a Notting Hill restaurant, where people were planning TV shows and new ad campaigns, I ordered a glass of wine, and a deathly hush descended.

‘I could never drink wine in the day,’ said my horrified guest. ‘I’d never get anything done in the afternoon.’

And there you have it. Back in the early 1980s you worried about your performance at work because you knew that if you were kicked out, you’d be jobless until the end of time.

But now people worry about their performance at work because, unlike the continentals, we no longer work to live.

We live to work, and you can’t function properly with a glass of Chablis swilling around your arterial route map.

Ten years ago you knocked off at 5.30, irrespective of what you happened to be doing at the time. Shops went in for half-day closing. You always took your holidays, and if you felt a bit peaky you went to bed for a month.

Oh, how times have changed. Now, when the guys on
Top Gear
call a car firm in the sticks at 7 p.m. and get a message saying, ‘I’m sorry, the office is closed for the day,’ they slam the phone down and spend the rest of the evening muttering about what they call ‘provincial sloppiness’.

People go to work, having been savaged by Bengal tigers. If you catch ebola, you must get the deal done before your liver liquefies. And half-day closing? Now, you can buy arugula at 3 a.m. seven days a week.

Today, and this has nothing to do with Mr Brown or his warmongering boss, the entire British workforce
suffers not from absenteeism but presenteeism. When I began in local newspaper journalism, it was 1978 and the country was a complete shambles. Dead rats, big piles of rubbish and a limited choice of crisp; salt, vinegar, or neither. And I was happy to contribute to the general feeling of malaise by working a 3½-day week.

No really, we were out of the door on a Thursday lunchtime when the paper went to bed, and we didn’t start again until Monday.

If the news editor wanted me to cover a parish council meeting in the evening, I’d spend the whole day harrumphing and lobbying my union representative to get me time off in lieu. Now, I work seven days a week, every week.

And how did Gordon Brown effect this change? Well, it’s hard to say really, since he was on paternity leave at the time.

How can this make the country strong and prosperous, for crying out loud? A dad’s role in the birth of a child is to ensure the infant has the right number of fingers and toes, then get back to work. If we all took a week off to mop up baby sick and do night feeds, we’d be back to 1978 in a jiffy.

It’s not just blokes, either. My wife, who is also my manager, found time during her third caesarean operation to discuss a new contract she’d been sent that morning. I’m not joking. She was lying there, with her stomach open to the elements and needles in her spine, wondering if 15 per cent of the back end was good enough, or if she should push for 20.

That’s the sort of attitude that has made the country
strong. We work now, all the time, even during childbirth. We go out at night with Borg-style mobile phone headset attachments in case the office wants to get in touch, and as a result we make more money, which we spend at a greater rate than at any time in history.

And are we thanked? No. Brown comes back from his paternity leave, or his six-week summer holiday, and lets it be known that it’s all down to him. Yeah, right, and victory in the First World War was all down to the generals.

Sunday 25 April 2004

A survey last week revealed that the top 10 things that best define Britain are roast beef (which will give you CJD) fish and chips (which aren’t available any more), the Queen, Buckingham Palace, cooked breakfast, the Beatles (half of whom are dead), Constable (who’s completely dead), the Houses of Parliament, Marks & Spencer and drinking tea.

Is this why half of eastern Europe is on its way here over this weekend: because they fancy a cup of tea? Because they want a new pair of underpants? Because they like to start the day with a hot meal?

I can only assume that the people who responded to this survey are living in the past or living in Worthing. Anyone who’s seen a newspaper recently would come up with some very different ideas about what defines Britain. With apologies to E.J. Thribb, I’m going to have a stab:

The Tipton Three, deep-fried brie

A difficult charter renewal for the BBC

Hospital rashes, endless train crashes

And a spot of closing-time thuggery.

Everyone’s at university so you can’t get a plumber but school leavers are getting dumber and dumber.

Footballers are roasting, cars are coasting and exactly when will we get some summer.

Teenage girls with ‘juicy’ on their arse and let’s not forget the Tony Martin farce.

Provincial chefs cooking, traffic wardens booking, sneak into the bus lane when no one’s looking.

The cameras will catch you if you go too fast, buildings are never meant to last, here comes a soap star with her knickers on show, too much sex, Beckham’s bloody texts, and the one-eyed mullah refuses to go.

We suck up to the Yanks, we’ve closed all the banks, and everyone talks like an EastEnder.

Our idea of a real night out is a complete and utter bender.

When the world was in trouble, we were there in a trice, we’ve beaten the Germans solidly twice.

But now in battle our guns don’t work and the guys on the subs have started to shirk.

We still like to think we’re a major world power, but in a war today we’d barely last an hour.

Yet again the Social failed to come up with the goods, government scientists dead in the woods, cockle-pickers, rate-capping bickers, and the CCTV defeated because the thieves were in hoods.

Plus we’re happy to sit and work at the bureau, but there’s no way we’re having that bloody euro.

No one makes things any more, it’s all call centres; what a bore.

By day the streets are full of PC bull, at night they’re full of lads on the pull.

You can’t post a letter, it won’t get there at all, and bosses are sued should a worker fall.

Talk proper on telly and Cilla will call you a nob and you daren’t go out because of the mob.