VILLA NEWS

The news caught everyone watching the 7th episode of the 5th season of Clarkson’s Farm completely off guard: Jeremy Clarkson has cancer. He announced it himself, in the middle of an otherwise ordinary conversation about harvests. I looked at my wife. She looked at me. Had we heard that right? Was it him, or a cow, or a sheep that had cancer? We rewound to make sure. Kaleb was wiping his eyes. So were we. Get well soon, Jeremy Clarkson.

Now you might be wondering: why am I writing a column about a British television personality hardly anyone in Brazil has heard of? Two reasons. The first is to express my admiration for Jeremy Clarkson. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find yourself a fan too. He, together with James May and Richard Hammond, makes me feel like a child playing with toy cars with my mates. No particular reason. No deeper meaning. Just because there’s something life-affirming about watching grown men being gloriously silly.

That’s an order

The second reason is an experiment. Or perhaps a quiet act of faith. You may have noticed I wrote the whole column in English. That’s because this piece is a message in a bottle. It will be published, and then it will set sail across the mysterious seas of the Internet, navigating the storms and doldrums of social media, in the faint hope that it might one day wash ashore at the feet of Jeremy Clarkson himself. He for whom I am praying here from this inhospitable jungle called Brazil, a country where his wit and lightness of touch have, sadly, never quite found their moment.

I doubt it. Sadly, I very much doubt it. But if it does, I want it on record: I wish my buddy Jeremy Clarkson a speedy recovery. And I want to thank him for the countless hours I’ve spent in his company, laughing, travelling (me, of all people, who can’t stand travelling) and, above all, believing that in the world of television, a world so often filled with pretence, there is still room for someone genuinely and unapologetically real. Get well soon, Jeremy Clarkson. That’s an order.