It’s a reasonable bet that if Jeremy Clarkson stood for prime minister tomorrow, he’d win by a country mile. Some might even crown him the next sovereign. At the farmers’ protest in Westminster yesterday, Clarkson dominated the coverage, overshadowing even the other luminaries in attendance.
Like Trump, Clarkson has name recognition, independence, and a flair for media
Several high-profile Conservatives were present, including Kemi Badenoch, Priti Patel, and Robert Jenrick, alongside Nigel Farage in bespoke country-gent attire and Richard Tice from Reform. Yet they were all eclipsed by a shambling, frail figure in a moth-eaten pea coat, faded jeans, and a beanie hat: Jeremy Clarkson.
Clarkson, looking every inch as if he’d been mucking out that morning, took on a smug BBC presenter, creating Twitter-ready content in the process, before delivering a short but powerful and humorous speech. Packed with memorable lines, his highlights included: ‘Sheep look at GS4 (eco-friendly feed) the same way a five-year-old looks at an olive’; ‘When did the BBC become the mouthpiece of this infernal government?’; and ‘You lot got a knee to the nuts and a light hammer blow to the back of the head’ (farmers, in response to the budget). He was the undeniable star of the event.
The idea of Clarkson entering politics isn’t new; he’s been linked to the London mayoralty numerous times, and a petition to make him prime minister once attracted 50,000 signatures. But with the success of non-politicians like Donald Trump and the rise of outsider movements, the time has never seemed riper for Clarkson to take the plunge.
Let’s face it: we’re sick of career politicians. They’re often dull, limited individuals with few achievements and little understanding of ordinary concerns. Marinated in progressive ideology, they make terrible mistakes and then refuse to correct course. Examples abound.
Clarkson, whether you like him or not, comes from a different realm – one where results matter. He has thrived as a journalist, broadcaster, farmer, and publican. He’s faced setbacks: binned by the BBC (surely worth millions of votes), divorced, and hounded by regulators. Like any good farmer, there’s plenty of dirt on him; too much to make him vulnerable to muckraking.
Granted, it’s hard to imagine Clarkson tolerating Westminster’s rigmarole, reining in his rhetoric, or subscribing to cabinet responsibility. And he’d likely hate being away from his farm for long or trading his Amazon deal for an MP’s salary. But Clarkson leading a farmers’ rights party? That’s conceivable.
The Dutch BoerBurgerBeweging (Farmer-Citizen Movement) offers a template. It played a key role in ending Mark Rutte’s premiership and opposing his eco-agenda. A British equivalent could target rural Labour MPs, pressuring them into a u-turn on damaging agricultural policies. Clarkson’s charisma, media savvy, and sharp wit could rally support.
Clarkson wouldn’t need to win a single seat; even a modest slate of candidates could swing rural constituencies and instill fear in Labour. Like Trump, Clarkson has name recognition, independence, and a flair for media. Unlike Trump, he’s also articulate and a talented writer.
So why not, Jeremy? At the very least, it would be hugely entertaining – and a great premise for the next series of Clarkson’s Farm.
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