Jeremy Clarkson Dismisses Kaleb Cooper with Blunt “You’re Wrong” Response: What Happened Between Them?

Jeremy Clarkson isn’t one to take conventional farming advice lying down — and on his 1,000-acre Oxfordshire holding, Diddly Squat Farm, he has once again proved that when it comes to livestock, he does things his own way. Despite the objections of his farm manager, Kaleb Cooper, Clarkson ploughed ahead with a bold plan: he purchased 29 castrated male goats (“boy kids”) for a mere £290, intending them to clear around six acres of overgrown brambles and scrub at the farm — land he estimates is worth around £60,000. And he didn’t shy away from his cheeky final retort to Kaleb: “That’s where you’re wrong, because I have 29 goats.”

In his new book Diddly Squat: The Farmer’s Dog, Clarkson details how Kaleb had urged him to fatten the goats up for meat — “you can’t get cheese from a boy,” Kaleb reportedly told him — and sell them as soon as possible. Clarkson, however, had other ideas. He reasoned that the inaccessible six-acre patch was being neglected by machinery, choked with brambles and waste. If he could set goats loose there, he would essentially get the land cleared, fertilised and back in use — and for a fraction of what conventional methods would cost.

He wrote that buying the goats at “a tenner each” represented one hell of a return on investment and that he absolutely rejected the notion of raising them solely for slaughter: “About six acres of the farm is completely inaccessible to any kind of machine … I reckoned I could put the goats in there and they could rush about like a fleet of horned lawn-mowers.”

The book goes on to recount the early hurdles: the kids arrived young, needed bottle-feeding formula (which Clarkson admits was expensive), and had to be introduced to electric fencing — which he found “quite funny”. Yet once the animals were released into the thicket, their work rate astonished him. In one day the goats cleared a quarter of an acre, “and they were crapping all over the place, which is better for the soil than, say, not having animals”.

Clarkson also singles out the animals’ suitability for family-friendly visits to the farm. He says that unlike some other livestock — lambs that “can frequently be found rotting or full of maggots”, as he colourfully puts it — the goats do not perform “disgusting sex acts”, don’t rot, and “in some ways they are like dogs”. He insists the goats are “children-friendly” and that a quick run round with them won’t give youngsters “mental-health problems” (his phrasing).

Of course, not all is idyll. The goats, when younger, would “head-butt” him and might even “go for my b******s”, he confesses, but in his inimitable style, he frames their behaviour as part of the charm and chaos of the farm.

The episode marks yet another chapter in Clarkson’s sometimes fraught, often hilarious journey into farming. His Amazon Prime Video series Clarkson’s Farm has documented many such escapades since the former motoring journalist took on arable land in the Cotswolds, navigating weather woes, bureaucracy, livestock dilemmas, and new ventures (including a pub and a farm shop). The goat gambit now joins the roster of his unconventional methods.

Kaleb Cooper’s role in this tale, though, is not minimal. As farm manager he had advised the more traditional route — fattening the goats and selling for meat – and worried about the practicality of Clarkson’s plan from the start. But Clarkson, ever confident (or contrarian), writes: “That’s where you’re wrong, because I have 29 goats.” The exchange captures the dynamic between the two: Kaleb the practical adviser to Clarkson’s impulsive, big-picture thinking.

From acquisition to deployment, the goats were part of a calculated scheme: 29 male, castrated kids bought 15 months ago to clear land that was otherwise unreachable. The calculation: spending £290 against clearing and revitalising land valued at £60,000 — a ratio Clarkson clearly deems extraordinary. He reckons, tongue-in-cheek: “One hell of a return.”

The animals were selected for their dual purpose: practical land-clearing machines and family-friendly farm creatures that would integrate well with public visits. In the book he writes: “The best thing about the goats is that they are children-friendly. They don’t perform disgusting sex acts on one another. They don’t put their arms out and charge, and they don’t want to rot. In some ways they are like dogs.”

He contrasts them with lambs, which he says offer “heart-warming ruralness … if I’m lucky”, but which too often “can frequently be found rotting or full of maggots”. In that sense, the goats tick more of the boxes: they’re less messy, less liable to disaster, and more useful.

In reviewing the logistics: initially the kids had to be bottle-fed with formula, which Clarkson notes was “expensive”. They needed training around electric fencing — he reports feeling amused at that process. Once acclimated, within days they were unleashed on the scrub, quickly proving effective: in one day clearing a quarter-acre of bramble jungle. He described their work ethic as phenomenal: “It’s like they’re Polish,” is his off-the-cuff quip.

In addition, the goats earned their keep by adding manure and plant matter to the soil — something Clarkson says “is better for the soil than, say, not having animals”. That mix of ecological benefit plus cost-effectiveness appears to have appealed to him: cheap acquisition, high potential land value, dual benefit (land improvement + public-friendly animals).

Beyond the joke and the chaos, the move subtly aligns with Clarkson’s growing interest in diversified, sustainable, mixed-farming models. While he is not a purist environmentalist, he appears keen to show that alternative stock and new methods — even at his somewhat comedic scale — can have real practical benefit. The goat plan is part of that narrative.

That said, the episode also highlights the risk of Clarkson’s ambition. He bought the goats because he could picture using them as “horned lawn-mowers” for land otherwise unmanageable by machinery. But the plan required investment: feeding, training, fencing, housing, supervision. And the payoff is not simply in meat or milk (in fact, he dismisses the conventional dairy route because “you can’t get cheese from a boy”, per Kaleb), but in land transformation and public perception.

Kaleb Cooper’s scepticism is not ill-founded: his experience suggests goats bought only for meat need to be fattened and sold soon to generate return. Clarkson’s decision to keep and use them for land-clearance and public-relations is unusual. In the book he quotes Kaleb: “You’ve taken leave of your senses … you can’t get cheese from a boy.” Clarkson’s retort: “That’s where you’re wrong, because I have 29 goats.”

The story encapsulates much of what fans of Clarkson’s Farm know: humorous mismatch of ambition and expertise, the clash of ideas between Clarkson and his farm-trained staff, messy on-the-ground learning, but also surprising results and occasional success. While many of his schemes fail, this one — at least as he writes — appears to have worked in the narrow terms he envisioned.

In short: the 29 goats are now live on the property of Diddly Squat Farm, trimming brambles, helping fertility, entertaining visitors, and — most importantly — making Jeremy Clarkson feel vindicated. Whether the plan proves financially as miraculous as the headline (£290 investment, £60,000 land value) remains to be seen, but one thing is clear: he’s having fun, and so are the goats.