Jeremy Clarkson, the irreverent broadcaster turned unlikely agrarian icon, has candidly admitted to feeling “old and broken” as he navigates the physical toll of farm life at his sprawling Diddly Squat estate. In a revealing column for The Sunday Times, the 65-year-old former Top Gear host detailed his reluctant decision to retire a beloved piece of machinery, marking a poignant moment in his ongoing transformation from petrolhead provocateur to countryside custodian.
Clarkson, who has owned the 1,000-acre property—formerly known as Curdle Hill Farm—since 2008, has thrust it into the spotlight through Prime Video’s hit series Clarkson’s Farm. Now in its fourth season with a fifth confirmed, the show chronicles the highs and lows of rural enterprise, from bureaucratic battles to bovine blunders, endearing Clarkson to millions with his trademark blend of humor, frustration, and unfiltered honesty. Located in the picturesque village of Chadlington near Chipping Norton in the Cotswolds, Diddly Squat has become a tourist magnet, complete with a farm shop peddling everything from “Cow Juice” milk to “Bee Juice” honey, drawing fans eager for a glimpse of the chaos captured on screen.
But behind the laughs and lager-fueled escapades—Clarkson also owns the adjacent Farmer’s Dog pub, which recently hosted the Britain’s Fittest Farmer competition—lies a more sobering reality. In his latest missive, published on November 8, Clarkson dispels the myth of farming as a grueling physical endeavor. “Since I started in the fields six years ago, I’ve realised that farming is ideal for those who don’t like to work up a sweat,” he wrote. “Only mattress testers have an easier, more sedentary life.” He described a daily routine dominated by sitting: behind the wheel of a tractor for drilling and cultivating, in his Range Rover for livestock checks, or in a telehandler for heavy lifting. Even administrative drudgery, like filing reports for Defra (the UK’s Department for Environment, Food & Rural Affairs), is done from a chair.
This sedentary existence, however, hasn’t spared Clarkson from the aches of advancing age. The crux of his column centers on the Supacat, a rugged six-wheel-drive, semi-amphibious vehicle originally designed for military use—specifically, recovering damaged Land Rovers from battlefields. Purchased for £9,000 a few years back, the Supacat has been Clarkson’s go-to for woodland excursions, hauling timber through the farm’s dense forests. Yet, as he confessed, “It is quite difficult to get in and out of, if you are old and broken.” This admission underscores a vulnerability rarely glimpsed in Clarkson’s bombastic public persona, hinting at the cumulative wear from decades of high-octane antics, including his infamous Top Gear tenure alongside Richard Hammond and James May.
Determined not to let mobility issues curb his woodland operations, Clarkson embarked on a quest for a replacement. He dismissed quad bikes outright, citing their instability: “They always feel as though they’re going to fall over.” Utility Task Vehicles (UTVs) gave him pause too, haunted by the tragic loss of a friends’ daughter in a similar machine. Nonetheless, practicality prevailed, leading him to test several models.
One standout was the all-electric Polaris Ranger XP Kinetic Ultimate, priced at a hefty £44,000. Clarkson appreciated its 80-mile range—ample for most farm tasks—and its silent operation, arguing that as a mere “tool” (unlike soulful cars), electrification made sense. However, real-world testing revealed flaws. Navigating a fallen tree in the woods proved tricky without engine noise for auditory cues: “You press the accelerator and nothing happens. So you press it some more and still nothing happens. So you keep on pressing it until, all of a sudden, you leap over the tree doing four thousand miles per hour.” The petrol alternative from Polaris, while cheaper and less jarring, still didn’t clinch the deal.
Enter the CFMoto UForce U10 Pro, a Chinese-manufactured petrol-powered UTV that Clarkson snapped up for around £39,000—£5,000 less than the electric Polaris. Boasting a top speed of 70 mph (though he quipped, “I wouldn’t want to do that”), it impressed with its robustness and array of creature comforts: leather-look seats, Apple CarPlay integration, electric windows, a hydraulic tipping load bed, an electric winch, and even air conditioning via a tilting front window. “It has been on the farm for a couple of months now, and I must say it’s very practical, very robust and extremely useful,” Clarkson enthused. “Nothing’s fallen off either.” Minor gripes include its petrol thirst—mismatched with the farm’s diesel tanks—and a bit of noise, but these pale against its utility.
The UForce’s arrival has won over more than just its owner. Clarkson’s dogs, Sansa and another unnamed companion, have claimed the pick-up bed as their domain. “On day one, my dogs leapt into the pick-up bed and since then have pretty much refused to get out,” he recounted. One heart-stopping incident saw Sansa spot a deer and bail out mid-motion, only to rebound unharmed and leap back in—a feat Clarkson called “impressive.” The pups relish sticking their heads through the sliding rear window, ears flapping in the breeze created by the tilted windscreen, simulating a high-speed run without the effort. Even parked in the barn, they lounge inside, training unwittingly for next year’s “fittest farm dogs” crown—or perhaps “fattest,” as Clarkson jested.
This vehicle swap comes amid broader reflections on farming’s paradoxes. Clarkson contrasted the Britain’s Fittest Farmer event—where competitors flaunt helicopter-landing-pad shoulders—with Basque strength games’ absurd feats, like wife-tossing (now banned after one spouse allegedly sailed to Madrid). Yet, he insists, farm work itself builds no such brawn; contestants’ physiques stem from gym sessions, not fields.
As Clarkson’s Farm gears up for its fifth installment, fans speculate on how this “broken” admission might play out on screen. The series has already documented Clarkson’s clashes with local councils, crop failures, and heartfelt moments with partner Lisa Hogan and sidekick Kaleb Cooper. This latest chapter adds a layer of introspection, humanizing the man behind the bluster.
At 65, Clarkson shows no signs of slowing—his pub thrives, his columns provoke, and his farm endures. But as he trades rugged reliability for comfort, it’s a reminder that even the most indomitable spirits must adapt. In the Cotswolds’ rolling hills, Diddly Squat presses on, one dog-approved UTV ride at a time.
