Cruel To Be Unkind.

In the evolution of the acerbic, Times columnist A A Gill is homo erectus to Clarkson's neanderthal as evidenced in their respective contributions today. Where Clarkson can be redeemingly self-deprecatory, I doubt that a man whose insecurities are illustrated by the use of his initials in lieu of his given name(s) is often given to such moments of self-examination. At the end of his weekly review of television, Gill lights briefly but pointedly on 'Talking Funny' in which, he reports, 'three American comics sat yakking matily about how comedy happens'. They were, apparently, accompanied by Ricky Gervais and Gill wonders 'who invited Gervais to a party of comedians'. [He was the programmes's producer]. This you might think just but it is, on his record, manifestly unfair. For all that he has more recently and frequently strayed beyond the bounds of comedic decency and into overtly barbed cruelty, 'The Office' and 'Extras' are undeniable masterpieces. They contained early examples of the same tendencies to cruelty but skilfully contained within the finely drawn boundaries of the acceptable.

Clarkson today admits to 'growing up' through the most improbable vehicle of a Porsche 911 or, at least, its latest incarnation. I admire Clarkson's prose though not without some concern that it is likely more crafted for an audience than the product of heartfelt opinions. His work in The Times is brilliantly entertaining but the cruder offering in last week's Sun led me to wonder if the only difference between the readerships might be that one keeps their tattoos under their sleeves. I was thinking of him today not primarily because of my breakfast reading but my later lunchtime experience at Mottisfont. I am grateful to my colleague Julian for suggesting a visit. Romance and reality had rapidly diverged when rain actually arrived. In an urban or transport setting I might have contrived some photography but the beautiful grounds of the National Trust property did not benefit from the poor light. We have to return if only to capture the extraordinary 18th century Mottisfont Plane. Today, the weather and hour combined to drive everyone to the cafe at the same time. Normally we would eschew such a queue but this time we waited to be rewarded with excellent food made with delicious local products. In the queue and at the table I had plenty of time to reflect on the company; couples between morning and evening church services, ramblers taking a day off from annoying landowners, a lot of low-cost all-weather clothing, grandchildren behaving with their grandparents much better than they would with their parents. A lot of those infuriatingly benign grins, wet on men, indicative of too much voluntary work on women and which suggest either hidden secrets or simply empty minds. People with fixed ideas of what they should enjoy but little idea of what they actually do enjoy. There I go; Gill, Clarkson, Gervais all in one and as unattractive as the worst of any of them. It's not really what I believe, just what passes through my mind and ends up in print.