Jeremy Clarkson: British farms can grow cheap food — but at what cost?

I’ve always said that if I were forced for some reason to leave the UK and I needed to live and work somewhere else, I’d go to Copenhagen. You eat dinner at a sensible time, not four in the morning, you’re never distracted by the beach, and you can have conversations with a van driver about how the krone is controlled by the European Central Bank. I know because I did. Here I spend most of my van-based conversations trying to explain what “fragile” means.

Everywhere you go in Copenhagen there are attractive people having lunch in attractive restaurants before going back to the office to design some more attractive chairs. They put their solar farms between the motorway and the railway line, and all around the canals and docks there are no unsightly railings. If you fall in, you just get out again. And if you can’t swim, well, that’s your own silly fault.

And then there’s the business of getting about, which is done on a bicycle. Unlike here, though, no one wears a helmet or that idiotic Stasi stormtrooper combination of black tights and black shorts. Cycling is not some BLT+, pro-Hamas, kick-out-the-Tories political movement. It’s just something you do to get about, because even the crappiest little car is about a million pounds. And there are no hills.

I love pootling about on a bicycle there, stopping for a cup of coffee and a pastry, or to look in a little shop that sells nothing but lampshades made from thinly sliced ash. If Carlsberg did cities, they’d look like this.

But even here, amid all the loveliness, we find the awful Lawrence Stroll plague of Tommy Hilfiger, Prada, Chanel, Bulgari, Gucci and all those other multinational emporiums for the terminally dreadful, which now dominate every city centre, high-end Caribbean resort and airport terminal in the world. Terry Wogan once said he’d like to machinegun everyone on Henman Hill. I feel the same way when I’m presented with a branch of Boss.

I’m told that these fashion, luggage and sunglasses shops are everywhere because they are the only ones that can afford city centre rents and I’m sure that’s true. So that’s good for the city, the landlords and stupid people in white trousers who think it’s OK to spend £850 on a pair of shoes because it says Prada on the instep.

It’s not what we want, of course. We want interesting shops full of interesting things and interesting people, and we think it’s silly to spend £850 on a pair of shoes. But lots of little shops all selling different things? That’s too difficult to organise. It’s much easier to call some twat on a yacht and ask him to send over a light dusting of Hilfiger and a spot of Saint Laurent.

Which brings me back to farming. I’m sitting here now on top of a hill in the Cotswolds and I can see four other farms, all run by farmers who do things their own way. There’s a chap not too far away who produces eggs in mobile hen houses. There’s a lady who’s passionate about organic produce. Then there’s my neighbour who seems to be persevering with oil-seed rape, and down in the valley there’s a brother and sister rearing pigs. It’s all small and higgledy-piggledy and charming. And it’s comforting to know that 90 per cent of Britain’s remaining farms are family owned. But if you stand back and look at the land as a business, you’d have to say, “Er, hang on a minute. This makes no sense at all.”

So I find myself wondering. Is this really what’s going on behind the scenes? Has the agricultural equivalent of Lawrence Stroll had a quiet word with the government: “Look, if you can get these pesky family farmers to sod off, I’ll buy the countryside, put in a bit of rewilding to keep the nutters happy and then use economies of scale to make all the food we need at a nice price.”

Think about it. My tractor is currently sitting in the yard because there’s nothing for it to do. But if I owned all the land from the south coast to the Wash it’d be working 24/7. Tomorrow I could send it to Hertfordshire to uproot hedges and pull down copses to make bigger, more economically viable fields, and the day after it would be in Dorset sprinkling some nitrogen on the barley.

It would all be a model of just-in-time efficiency and hydroponic tomatoes, and soon all of Europe’s farmland would be in the hands of four or five multinationals who could use freebies and dodgy handshakes to get government ministers to pass whatever legislation the shareholders wanted.

Under the present system farmers can’t really get governments to do anything as there are too many of us and we all have different needs. It’d be like asking a classroom of kids what they want for Christmas and expecting them all to say the same thing. There’s always going to be one that wants peace and love and another who wants a subscription to Pornhub. And a Ferrari.

If the multinationals move in that would all be solved. Plus, it would be good for the global economy, good for investors and food prices will probably fall. And to make it all even more palatable fields will be full of signs saying “Monsanto Inc. Growing sustainably for hard-working families in the community”. I think for certain the world’s governments have this utopian vision in their heads. Which is why their policies are so skewed against farmers and the present system. They’d much rather have five guys who speak their language and have pit passes at the Monaco Grand Prix every year than five thousand who come into town once a blue moon to spray government buildings with their disgusting manure.

You may think they have a point. You may like the idea of cheaper food, but do you want to wave goodbye to the hedgerows and the copses? And do you want the British countryside to be owned and run by a private equity outfit in Chicago? Or let me put it to you another way: do you want a hydroponic Tommy Hilfiger tomato? Because I don’t.