There are few things Jeremy Clarkson will not exploit for copy. These things do not include the nations of China, Malaysia, Scotland, and Germany, the Welsh language, public sector strikers, public executions, gay people, dead Chinese workers, Indian culture and history, disabilities, and people who commit suicide.
Indeed, when Jeremy thinks about it, the only things that are off limits for copy are things that will get him immediately killed and/or castrated.
Thus James Murdoch’s quiet, flat voice carries far more weight than David Cameron’s frantic pleading, despite the fact that the latter is Prime Minister of the entire United Kingdom and is currently offering him a peerage.
“If you ever breathe a word of this, you will be a dead man walking.”
Even Cameron shuts up at that, turning in Murdoch’s grasp to gape inanely at him. Murdoch ignores both the Prime Minister in his arms and his own half-naked state, holding Jeremy’s eyes with aplomb.
Jeremy steadfastly avoids looking at Cameron’s cock. There are some things – very few things - Jeremy does not want to know about, but since this intriguing development has just been ruled “out of copy”, he has no professional interest in the matter, and certainly no personal one. Cameron’s cock is free from his beady appraisal.
“A word of what?” he says, arching an eyebrow.
Murdoch inclines his head. “Your cooperation will reach the appropriate ears.”
Jeremy shows himself out.
Behind him, Cameron is complimenting Murdoch on his excellent poker skills.
Jeremy knows that Murdochs don’t play poker.