JEREMY CLARKSON’S FULL THROTTLE ANTHEMS (IN ASSOCIATION WITH THE SUN) IS THE WORST C.D I HAVE NEVER HEARD //

It was recently brought to my attention that Jeremy Clarkson is a complete prick. Of course, I already knew this, so really it was just reaffirmation. It was in a charity shop. My good friend had bought me a present. “Here you go mate,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “Early Christmas present.” It was a compilation of Clarkson’s favourite driving songs, compiled, apparently, during a time when pop music was so wet and formulaic that you could be forgiven for thinking you had drifted off and woken up in a shampoo advert. The few tracks the country’s most tolerated fascist had chosen to showcase on his Full Throttle Anthems LP prove exactly how much of a massive sweaty ball sack he really is.

The opener is an obscure track, a B-side in fact, from failed British cock rockers The Darkness, subtly titled Bareback. I was going to listen to it but then I decided to just pull out my own eyelashes and glue them back on instead. It wasn’t fun and I ended up in A&E for six hours of excruciating treatment, but at least I didn’t have to listen to Bareback by The Darkness. He follows this up with the timeless classic, Meat Loaf’s Bat Out of Hell. I skipped that one too, because I’ve heard it before and it fucking sucks. What’s next Jezza? Oh yeah, The Cardigans’ My Favourite Game. Why anyone would want to put themselves through the torture of listening to this whilst driving down a highway before the crushing truth that they are actually doing 40 on an A road in Berkshire on their way to a job selling insurance in Andover hits home, is beyond me. It’s the kind of moment where you realise your entire life has just been a big fucking amalgamation of bullshit Hollywood clichés and you should probably hightail into the nearest very deep ravine. Clarkson continues in the same fashion, a lot of intolerable bullshit like the tired snoozefest that is Black Betty by Ram Jam and Reef’s crooning ballad of sweat and bad bootcut jeans Place Your Hands. In case you were wondering, the latter sounds as shit today as it did when you were fingering that nerdy girl at your school disco in the early 2000s as a favour because she let you copy her science homework.

There is, however, one glimmer of hope on the album. Oh wait, that’s just my reflection in the jewel case. Do one Clarkson, basically everyone I know thinks you’re a twat and hopes that when you finally get fired from the Beeb for being a moron you end up presenting pricedrop.tv, become addicted to heroin and end up emaciated, struggling to scrape a living from hand jobs on the streets of Warsaw.

 

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Words: Billy Black

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