Post by RedMoon11 on Aug 6, 2014 23:09:10 GMT
The Sunday Times's Relative Values column - Jeremy and Shirley Clarkson
Published June 24 2001
Jeremy Clarkson, 41, TV presenter and journalist, and his mum, Shirley, 66, who set up Gabriel Designs which produced the first Paddington Bear
Jeremy
‘I know I’ve copped a load of flak over the years and that most people think I’m a loud, brash, opinionated,
sexist, racist fool, but I’m pretty sure Mum doesn’t worry too much about that stuff’
Shirley
‘We deal with emotions by having a laugh. It’s like when Jeremy comes to see me – the first thing he does is
pat the cushions on my settee. “It’s okay, Mother,” he shouts, “you’ve not started wetting them yet!”’
Jeremy
I was always a bit of a mother’s boy. I can certainly see a lot of her in me – she’s one of those life-and-soul-of-the party, bang-the-furniture, make-a-joke-about-anything characters. Which is very much the image people have of Jeremy Clarkson.
Even when I was an idiot teenager, I was in awe of her and how she could hold the entire room with one of her stories. Her friends used to call them Clarkson stories; they were, like, these elaborately exaggerated anecdotes. I’m sure they thought she made them up.
No matter how bad things are – funerals, catastrophes, death in the family – Mum will turn it into an after-dinner story. Even just before my dad died, we made jokes about his illness. We’d play games like: how many illnesses has Dad had this week that begin with A. Or list the drugs Dad’s taking that begin with P. And he’d join in with us!
I grew up in Doncaster, but it wasn’t one of those tough Yorkshire childhoods. It was safe, secure and very middle class. Mum was a teacher, Dad was a travelling salesman – I think he was flogging timber at the time.
From early on, I realised they wanted a private education for me and my sister, Jo, but they couldn’t afford it. So Mum started making bits and bobs on the side. Pouffes and cushions to sell to the neighbours. She was, and still is, a wonderful seamstress.
Then, one day, she made me and Jo a Paddington Bear toy. People went berserk for those things. Business started picking up, they contacted Michael Bond [Paddington Bear author], sorted out a licensing deal and that was that.
I still remember the day Mum and Dad told us they were jacking in their jobs to set up the toy business. Marine Boy was on the telly, and I thought: “Do what the hell you want, Mother, but please shut up!” Anyway, Mum got her wish. Paddington Bear paid for me to go to Repton.
As a kid, you never understand the sacrifices your parents make just so you can get a decent education, do you? I mean, Jesus! Mum and Dad must have worked every hour God sent to get me to Repton. And how did I repay them? I fooled around for five years and got expelled.
They were bloody livid. As they had every right to be. Don’t get me wrong, I knew I was upsetting them, but when you’re at boarding school, it’s very much out-of-sight-is-out-of-mind. It was only when they came to pick me up at the end of term that the sheer scale of what I was doing to their lives really hit me.
Looking back, though, those were some of the best years of my life. Boarding school was wonderful and I fitted in perfectly. My only disappointment is that no one ever tried to bugger me. I feel that’s a whole important part of growing-up that I missed out on.
Me and Mum are also very alike when it comes to business: both totally useless. Neither of us has a clue about what we’re supposed to do with money. Mum’s toy business was very successful, but she’s not got that much to show for it. Okay, she’s not living in a back-to-back terrace in Leeds, but if she’s had the business savvy of someone like Richard Branson, she’d never have had to worry about money ever again.
In many ways, that’s why I work so hard. I don’t want the same thing to happen to me. I want to make sure there’s enough money for the kids and for Mum. I want her to know that even if she lives to 100, the bills will be paid and she’s going to be all right.
I know I’ve copped for a load of flak over the years and that most people think I’m a loud, brash, opinionated, sexist, racist fool, but I’m pretty sure Mum doesn’t worry too much about that stuff. I think she understands that I’m just having a bit of a giggle.
To be honest, I’ve never understood why people call me sexist. My entire life is run by a woman – my wife, Francie.She even gives me pocket money. I only get 80 quid a week, y’know. Jesus, when I first met her, she scared the sh*t out of me. She was this career girl with the gold GTI, the red lipstick and the office in Covent Garden, and I was just a bum. She turned my life around. Does that make me a sexist?
Very occasionally, all the stuff Mum hears about me will affect her. I can tell, because she switches from Anecdotal Mum to Concerned Mum. She becomes very serious and she’ll sit me down and ask if everything’s all right. Of course, it only lasts five minutes, then she starts taking the piss again.
I don’t know how Mum and Dad arranged to bring us up, but they did a great job. No matter how angry I made them – and I’ve made them pretty angry over the years – they never did anything that made me stop caring about what they thought of me. And they never did anything that stopped me caring about them.
Shirley
I’m sure Jeremy thinks he was a normal child, but, my God, he was a handful. Do you know something, he gave up working at school when he was 11. He went from being top of the class to bottom overnight. He told us that he didn’t think physics or maths were going to be any use to him, because he was going to be Alan Whicker, an astronaut or king. In that order.
It got to the point where I was being called up to the school every two weeks. The headmaster would say: “Now, Mrs Clarkson, has Jeremy told you what he’s done this time?”
But he was never into the bad stuff. He never stole things, he never committed a crime; he just spent five years needling the staff, and they eventually told me they couldn’t put up with him anymore.
He was always the one creeping out to have a fag or breaking wind in the two-minute silence. I suppose some kids are like that. You love them dearly, but they’re a damn nuisance.
Mind you, even then, Jeremy had the gift of the gab. The little bugger could talk his way into – or out of – anything.When we picked him up from school, me and his dad could guess how much trouble he was in by how far he’d walked from the gates to meet us.
If he met us a couple of miles from the school, that meant he’d got five minutes to tell his side of the story. By the time we were in the headmaster’s office, he’d convinced us it was all a big misunderstanding. He’s still the same. People say he gets it from me.
Did he mention his sister? They’re as far apart as it’s possible to get. Jo was a model student – head down, do as you’re told, get your degree. Like me, Jo gets annoyed by some ofthe things she reads about Jeremy, but we’ve learnt to take it with a pinch of salt.
My father once said to me: “A gentleman is never unknowingly rude.” And that’s Jeremy. He knows he’s going a bit too close to the edge, but that’s how he gets a laugh. He’s just a big kid really. He dreaded turning 40, you know. He even went to Barbados so he could delay his birthday by nine hours.
People might find this hard to believe, but he does get hurt by some of the things people say about him. He’d never let on, though. It’s as if he feels he’s got his laddish image to live up to.
To be honest, I don’t think he enjoys having to keep up the image 24 hours a day. Like if he’s taking Francie and the kids out for a meal, there might be someone having a go at him for slagging off their car, and he feels he has to join in the fun and be “Jeremy Clarkson from the telly”. He thinks it’s too dangerous to show people his softer side.
Mind you, all the Clarksons are like that. We deal with emotions by having a laugh. It’s like when Jeremy comes to see me – the first thing he does is pat the cushions on my settee. “It’s okay, Mother,” he shouts, “you’ve not started wetting them yet!” We have this agreement: whenever I start dribbling my food or having accidents on the settee, he’ll drive up to Beachy Head and push me over the edge. And it’s mutual.
I talk to a lot of Jeremy’s friends and they always tell me how their mothers drive them up the wall. I think: “What is it we mothers do that drives our kids up the wall? A lot of us have our faculties and can still get about – you should count yourself lucky your mother’s not in a home.”
I dread the thought of that happening to me. And I’d never move in with the kids – I never want to be a burden. If that’s not possible, then, like I said, it’s off to Beachy Head.
Interviews by Danny Scott
Portrait by Larry Dunstan
Published June 24 2001
Jeremy Clarkson, 41, TV presenter and journalist, and his mum, Shirley, 66, who set up Gabriel Designs which produced the first Paddington Bear
Jeremy
‘I know I’ve copped a load of flak over the years and that most people think I’m a loud, brash, opinionated,
sexist, racist fool, but I’m pretty sure Mum doesn’t worry too much about that stuff’
Shirley
‘We deal with emotions by having a laugh. It’s like when Jeremy comes to see me – the first thing he does is
pat the cushions on my settee. “It’s okay, Mother,” he shouts, “you’ve not started wetting them yet!”’
Jeremy
I was always a bit of a mother’s boy. I can certainly see a lot of her in me – she’s one of those life-and-soul-of-the party, bang-the-furniture, make-a-joke-about-anything characters. Which is very much the image people have of Jeremy Clarkson.
Even when I was an idiot teenager, I was in awe of her and how she could hold the entire room with one of her stories. Her friends used to call them Clarkson stories; they were, like, these elaborately exaggerated anecdotes. I’m sure they thought she made them up.
No matter how bad things are – funerals, catastrophes, death in the family – Mum will turn it into an after-dinner story. Even just before my dad died, we made jokes about his illness. We’d play games like: how many illnesses has Dad had this week that begin with A. Or list the drugs Dad’s taking that begin with P. And he’d join in with us!
I grew up in Doncaster, but it wasn’t one of those tough Yorkshire childhoods. It was safe, secure and very middle class. Mum was a teacher, Dad was a travelling salesman – I think he was flogging timber at the time.
From early on, I realised they wanted a private education for me and my sister, Jo, but they couldn’t afford it. So Mum started making bits and bobs on the side. Pouffes and cushions to sell to the neighbours. She was, and still is, a wonderful seamstress.
Then, one day, she made me and Jo a Paddington Bear toy. People went berserk for those things. Business started picking up, they contacted Michael Bond [Paddington Bear author], sorted out a licensing deal and that was that.
I still remember the day Mum and Dad told us they were jacking in their jobs to set up the toy business. Marine Boy was on the telly, and I thought: “Do what the hell you want, Mother, but please shut up!” Anyway, Mum got her wish. Paddington Bear paid for me to go to Repton.
As a kid, you never understand the sacrifices your parents make just so you can get a decent education, do you? I mean, Jesus! Mum and Dad must have worked every hour God sent to get me to Repton. And how did I repay them? I fooled around for five years and got expelled.
They were bloody livid. As they had every right to be. Don’t get me wrong, I knew I was upsetting them, but when you’re at boarding school, it’s very much out-of-sight-is-out-of-mind. It was only when they came to pick me up at the end of term that the sheer scale of what I was doing to their lives really hit me.
Looking back, though, those were some of the best years of my life. Boarding school was wonderful and I fitted in perfectly. My only disappointment is that no one ever tried to bugger me. I feel that’s a whole important part of growing-up that I missed out on.
Me and Mum are also very alike when it comes to business: both totally useless. Neither of us has a clue about what we’re supposed to do with money. Mum’s toy business was very successful, but she’s not got that much to show for it. Okay, she’s not living in a back-to-back terrace in Leeds, but if she’s had the business savvy of someone like Richard Branson, she’d never have had to worry about money ever again.
In many ways, that’s why I work so hard. I don’t want the same thing to happen to me. I want to make sure there’s enough money for the kids and for Mum. I want her to know that even if she lives to 100, the bills will be paid and she’s going to be all right.
I know I’ve copped for a load of flak over the years and that most people think I’m a loud, brash, opinionated, sexist, racist fool, but I’m pretty sure Mum doesn’t worry too much about that stuff. I think she understands that I’m just having a bit of a giggle.
To be honest, I’ve never understood why people call me sexist. My entire life is run by a woman – my wife, Francie.She even gives me pocket money. I only get 80 quid a week, y’know. Jesus, when I first met her, she scared the sh*t out of me. She was this career girl with the gold GTI, the red lipstick and the office in Covent Garden, and I was just a bum. She turned my life around. Does that make me a sexist?
Very occasionally, all the stuff Mum hears about me will affect her. I can tell, because she switches from Anecdotal Mum to Concerned Mum. She becomes very serious and she’ll sit me down and ask if everything’s all right. Of course, it only lasts five minutes, then she starts taking the piss again.
I don’t know how Mum and Dad arranged to bring us up, but they did a great job. No matter how angry I made them – and I’ve made them pretty angry over the years – they never did anything that made me stop caring about what they thought of me. And they never did anything that stopped me caring about them.
Shirley
I’m sure Jeremy thinks he was a normal child, but, my God, he was a handful. Do you know something, he gave up working at school when he was 11. He went from being top of the class to bottom overnight. He told us that he didn’t think physics or maths were going to be any use to him, because he was going to be Alan Whicker, an astronaut or king. In that order.
It got to the point where I was being called up to the school every two weeks. The headmaster would say: “Now, Mrs Clarkson, has Jeremy told you what he’s done this time?”
But he was never into the bad stuff. He never stole things, he never committed a crime; he just spent five years needling the staff, and they eventually told me they couldn’t put up with him anymore.
He was always the one creeping out to have a fag or breaking wind in the two-minute silence. I suppose some kids are like that. You love them dearly, but they’re a damn nuisance.
Mind you, even then, Jeremy had the gift of the gab. The little bugger could talk his way into – or out of – anything.When we picked him up from school, me and his dad could guess how much trouble he was in by how far he’d walked from the gates to meet us.
If he met us a couple of miles from the school, that meant he’d got five minutes to tell his side of the story. By the time we were in the headmaster’s office, he’d convinced us it was all a big misunderstanding. He’s still the same. People say he gets it from me.
Did he mention his sister? They’re as far apart as it’s possible to get. Jo was a model student – head down, do as you’re told, get your degree. Like me, Jo gets annoyed by some ofthe things she reads about Jeremy, but we’ve learnt to take it with a pinch of salt.
My father once said to me: “A gentleman is never unknowingly rude.” And that’s Jeremy. He knows he’s going a bit too close to the edge, but that’s how he gets a laugh. He’s just a big kid really. He dreaded turning 40, you know. He even went to Barbados so he could delay his birthday by nine hours.
People might find this hard to believe, but he does get hurt by some of the things people say about him. He’d never let on, though. It’s as if he feels he’s got his laddish image to live up to.
To be honest, I don’t think he enjoys having to keep up the image 24 hours a day. Like if he’s taking Francie and the kids out for a meal, there might be someone having a go at him for slagging off their car, and he feels he has to join in the fun and be “Jeremy Clarkson from the telly”. He thinks it’s too dangerous to show people his softer side.
Mind you, all the Clarksons are like that. We deal with emotions by having a laugh. It’s like when Jeremy comes to see me – the first thing he does is pat the cushions on my settee. “It’s okay, Mother,” he shouts, “you’ve not started wetting them yet!” We have this agreement: whenever I start dribbling my food or having accidents on the settee, he’ll drive up to Beachy Head and push me over the edge. And it’s mutual.
I talk to a lot of Jeremy’s friends and they always tell me how their mothers drive them up the wall. I think: “What is it we mothers do that drives our kids up the wall? A lot of us have our faculties and can still get about – you should count yourself lucky your mother’s not in a home.”
I dread the thought of that happening to me. And I’d never move in with the kids – I never want to be a burden. If that’s not possible, then, like I said, it’s off to Beachy Head.
Interviews by Danny Scott
Portrait by Larry Dunstan
