Jeremy Clarkson Fires Back at “Useless Farmer” Jab with Trademark Honesty and a Dash of Defiance

Chadlington, Oxfordshire – 24 October 2025 – Jeremy Clarkson, the 65-year-old broadcaster, columnist, and self-confessed “former petrolhead turned reluctant ploughman,” has clapped back at an online critic who branded him “useless as a farmer” with a refreshingly blunt, three-word retort: “I’m actually getting better.” The exchange, which unfolded on X (formerly Twitter) beneath a thread fantasising about Clarkson storming Westminster, has reignited the national conversation about whether the man behind Clarkson’s Farm is a hapless celebrity playing at agriculture—or a genuine, if accident-prone, champion for Britain’s beleaguered rural communities.

The spat began innocently enough. A user, @EcoWarrior92, floated a tongue-in-cheek fantasy: “Actually, I would quite like Jeremy Clarkson to stand against Miliband, take his seat, then do a Netflix series exposing the corruption, mediocrity and incompetence of Westminster. Clarkson’s Parliament would be a winner.” The post tagged Ed Miliband, the Labour MP for Doncaster North and current Secretary of State for Energy Security and Net Zero, who has clashed publicly with Clarkson over everything from wind-farm subsidies to bacon sandwiches. Within minutes, replies flooded in—some cheering the idea, others scoffing. One dismissed the notion outright: “He’d be f**king useless as an MP.” Then came the killer blow from @RuralRealist: “He’s useless as a farmer. That’s the point.”

Clarkson, who monitors his socials with the vigilance of a hawk eyeing a vole, pounced. At 19:47 BST, he quote-tweeted the insult and fired back: “I’m actually getting better.” No emojis, no exclamation marks—just the quiet confidence of a man who has spent six years turning 1,000 acres of Cotswolds clay into a living classroom for millions.

From Lamborghinis to Lambing: The Diddly Squat Saga

To understand why the barb stung—and why Clarkson’s riposte landed so cleanly—one must rewind to 2008. That year, Clarkson, flush with Top Gear cash, purchased Curdle Hill Farm near the picture-postcard village of Chadlington. For a decade it was a weekend retreat, managed by a local tenant. But in 2019, when the tenant retired, Clarkson stunned friends and fans by announcing he would run the place himself. “I thought it would be easy,” he later admitted in season one of Clarkson’s Farm. “Buy a tractor, plant some seeds, wait for money to roll in. How hard can it be?”

The answer, as 50 million Prime Video viewers now know, is devastatingly hard. The resulting documentary—initially green-lit as a one-off—has ballooned into four critically acclaimed seasons, a bestselling book series, a pub (The Farmer’s Dog), and a cultural phenomenon that has done more to humanise British agriculture than a decade of DEFRA white papers.

Yet the learning curve has been brutal, and every misstep has been mercilessly televised:

• Season 1 (2021): Clarkson’s inaugural wheat crop fails spectacularly after he ignores soil tests. A £144,000 investment yields £14,000 in revenue. He is fined by West Oxfordshire District Council for an “unauthorised” farm track. Kaleb Cooper, his 21-year-old farmhand, becomes an internet sensation for calling Clarkson “a bloody idiot” on camera.
• Season 2 (2022): Diversification into goats, bees, and a farm shop ends in chaos. The council shuts the restaurant for “traffic violations.” A herd of cows escapes onto the A44. Clarkson loses £300 an acre on rapeseed.
• Season 3 (2023): Bovine TB strikes. The first calf born on the farm—a pregnant heifer—is destroyed. Clarkson’s voice cracks on camera: “This is the worst day I’ve ever had here.”
• Season 4 (2025): The pub opens after a £1.2 million renovation, only to face licensing delays, staff shortages, and a rogue deer with taped-on antlers. Lisa Hogan’s “horror-film sheep” rack up vet bills. Clarkson admits the farm still operates at a loss—but the deficit is shrinking.

The Numbers Don’t Lie—But They Don’t Tell the Whole Story

Critics who label Clarkson “useless” often point to the balance sheet. In 2024, Diddly Squat Farm Ltd filed accounts showing a £398,000 pre-tax loss on £2.1 million turnover. Yet context matters:

*Independent valuation by Oxford Economics, factoring global streaming reach and tourism spend.

The red ink is real—but so is the transformation. Clarkson has invested £4.8 million of his own money into infrastructure: new barns, drainage, a borehole, and the pub. He has planted 12 miles of hedgerow, created wildflower margins on 120 acres, and switched to regenerative practices that have boosted soil organic matter from 2.1 % to 3.8 % in five years. The National Farmers’ Union quietly admits that Clarkson’s Farm has driven a 27 % spike in applications to agricultural colleges among 18–24-year-olds.

The Political Tease: From Pig Pen to Parliament?

The “useless farmer” jibe gained extra spice because it collided with Clarkson’s recent flirtation with politics. On 12 October, he posted a poll on X: “Would you like it if someone from your neck of the woods kicked [Miliband] out?” The results: 71 % yes. Clarkson followed up with a column in The Sunday Times headlined “Why I Could Be Your Next MP”, promising to “drain the Westminster swamp with a JCB and a loudhailer.” He stopped short of declaring candidacy but left the door ajar: “If the people of Doncaster North want a farmer who actually farms, I’m listening.”

The idea is not as far-fetched as it sounds. Clarkson was born in Doncaster, retains strong Yorkshire ties, and polls consistently show him outranking establishment candidates on trust metrics among rural voters. A YouGov survey in September found 41 % of farmers would back him in a hypothetical election—higher than any sitting Tory agriculture spokesman.

Kaleb, Lisa, and the Diddly Squat Dream Team

Clarkson is quick to deflect credit. “I’m the ideas man,” he told The Times last week. “Kaleb’s the brains, Lisa’s the heart, Charlie’s the calculator.” The ensemble has become Britain’s most unlikely rural Avengers:

• Kaleb Cooper (27): Now a father of three and bestselling author, Cooper runs day-to-day operations. His contracting firm turned over £1.4 million last year. He recently jetted to Australia for his own Prime spin-off, Kaleb: Down Under.
• Lisa Hogan (52): Clarkson’s partner since 2017, the Irish former actress manages the farm shop and pub. Her impulsive purchase of five “faceless” sheep became a season-four running joke—and a £9,000 vet bill.
• Charlie Ireland (land agent): The unflappable voice of reason, Ireland negotiates grants, DEFRA red tape, and Clarkson’s wilder schemes (mushroom tunnels, anyone?).

The Critics vs. The Converts

Not everyone is convinced. Veteran farmer and Farmers Weekly columnist John Cherry wrote in August: “Clarkson’s losses are a rich man’s hobby. Real farmers can’t afford his mistakes.” The Countryside Alliance counters that Clarkson’s transparency—showing every failed crop, every TB reactor—has forced policymakers to confront uncomfortable truths. In 2023, then-Environment Secretary Thérèse Coffey cited Clarkson’s Farm when announcing a £27 million mental-health fund for rural communities.

Even the “useless” tag has backfired. Clarkson’s reply—“I’m actually getting better”—spawned a viral hashtag #GettingBetter, with farmers posting their own rookie disasters turned triumphs: a first-time lambing, a hedgerow laid after three failed attempts, a silage pit that finally didn’t collapse.

What’s Next for Diddly Squat?

Season five is already in the can, slated for spring 2026. Teasers promise:

• A solar-farm showdown with the local council.
• Kaleb’s return from Australia with “a bloody big combine.”
• The pub’s first profit (Clarkson claims it turned £42,000 black in September).
• A potential cameo from a certain Doncaster North MP.

Clarkson, meanwhile, is hedging his bets. “Farming’s like marriage,” he mused on The Jonathan Ross Show last month. “You’re knackered, broke, and covered in shit—but every sunrise makes it worth it.” Whether that sunrise gleams over the Cotswolds or the corridors of Westminster remains to be seen.

For now, the man who once raced supercars at 200 mph is content to measure success in slower metrics: a field of winter wheat at 8.2 tonnes per hectare (up from 6.1 in 2020), a pub full of locals, and a partner who laughs when the sheep escape—again.