James May Calls Jeremy Clarkson His ‘BIGGEST NEMESIS’ and REVEALS Clarkson’s Most Outrageous Act! Top Gear’s James May has set tongues wagging by naming Jeremy Clarkson as his ultimate rival and spilling the beans on Clarkson’s most shocking stunt. With fans eager for the inside scoop, the big question is—what did Clarkson do to earn such a notorious title, and how will this revelation shake up their legendary partnership?
It’s a rivalry that’s entertained millions, fuelled countless pub debates, and driven three middle-aged men across deserts, mountains, and the world’s most treacherous roads in battered hatchbacks and million-pound supercars alike. But beneath the camaraderie, the banter, and the petrol-soaked adventures, James May has finally let slip what many fans have long suspected: Jeremy Clarkson, his on-screen partner for more than two decades, is not just a colleague or a mate—he’s also, in May’s own words, his “biggest nemesis.”
For years, the trio of Clarkson, May, and Richard Hammond have been the driving force behind some of Britain’s best-loved television. From the golden age of Top Gear to the globe-trotting mischief of The Grand Tour, their chemistry has always seemed effortless—a blend of sibling rivalry, mutual respect, and just enough chaos to keep viewers hooked. But in a candid new interview with the Observer, May, 61, has pulled back the curtain on their relationship, revealing a side to their partnership that’s as prickly as it is playful.
“Honestly, it’s probably Jeremy Clarkson,” May admitted when asked who he’d consider his greatest adversary. There was no hesitation, no tongue-in-cheek deflection—just a frank confession from the man nicknamed ‘Captain Slow’, whose calm, measured demeanour has so often been the foil to Clarkson’s bombast. For May, the rivalry is more than just a running joke; it’s a reality that has shaped his life both on and off screen.
The confession comes with a dose of May’s trademark dry humour. He recounted how, in his daily wanderings around London—whether on foot or astride his beloved bicycle—he’s repeatedly been mistaken for his “nemesis.” “I’ve been told I look like King Theoden from Lord of the Rings. Robert Plant is very flattering. Billy Connolly is flattering,” May muses, a wry smile in his voice. But it’s the Clarkson comparisons that really get under his skin. “Unfortunately, quite a few times when I’ve been out walking or riding my bike around London, I’ve been mistaken for Jeremy Clarkson. I have to go home, examine myself very deeply and think: what have I done?”
It’s a moment of self-deprecation that’s instantly recognisable to fans. May has always been the thoughtful one, the quietly competitive yin to Clarkson’s loud, unpredictable yang. Yet, as he reveals, the constant comparisons—both flattering and otherwise—have a way of worming their way into his psyche. It’s one thing to be likened to a rock god or a legendary comedian; quite another to be confused for the man who’s spent years gleefully mocking your hair, your driving, and your taste in cars.
The rivalry, of course, is not limited to mistaken identity. Both men have, in recent years, thrown themselves into the world of country pubs—Clarkson with his Diddly Squat Farm Shop and The Hawkstone Arms in the Cotswolds, May with his own Wiltshire local. And, true to form, May can’t resist a gentle dig at his old friend’s expense. When asked which pub he’d choose as his sanctuary in the event of a zombie apocalypse, May doesn’t hesitate: “Oh, mine. It’s in Wiltshire. We’re heavily armed down here.” The implication is clear: when the chips are down, you want Captain Slow’s pub, not Clarkson’s, at your back.
But beneath the banter lies a more complicated truth—a history marked by both collaboration and conflict. The pair’s partnership, while undeniably successful, has not been without its flashpoints. Nowhere was this more evident than in the aftermath of Clarkson’s infamous exit from Top Gear—a saga that played out in the full glare of the world’s media.
It was 2015, and what should have been another triumphant series for the BBC’s flagship motoring show ended in chaos. A heated row over a cold steak, a late-night altercation with a producer, and suddenly, the unthinkable: Clarkson was out, suspended and then sacked in a storm of headlines and public outcry. For May and Hammond, the fallout was immediate and deeply personal.
On the Out To Lunch podcast, May opened up about those turbulent days, admitting to a tangle of emotions. “I was conflicted, because it obviously wasn’t right, that was a bad moment, but everybody’s had one. They just tend to not be as public as his was.” It’s a typically measured response—acknowledging the gravity of Clarkson’s actions without descending into condemnation. But there’s a flicker of frustration, too. “I was slightly annoyed that it could have been resolved in a much cleaner and more straightforward way.”
It’s a rare glimpse at the private cost of public scandal. For May, the incident was more than just a professional setback; it was a personal disappointment, a moment when the man he’d called both friend and nemesis let him down in front of millions. The BBC’s handling of the affair, the media circus that followed, and the uncertainty that hung over their future—these were wounds that took time to heal.
Yet, as anyone who’s followed their careers will know, May and Clarkson are nothing if not resilient. The pair, along with Hammond, dusted themselves off and set out on a new adventure—The Grand Tour, a show that took their unique brand of motoring mayhem to Amazon and audiences around the globe. The rivalry endured, but so did the partnership. If anything, the years since Top Gear have only deepened the strange, symbiotic bond between them.
It’s a relationship built on mutual need as much as mutual annoyance. Clarkson’s bombast is all the funnier for May’s deadpan retorts; May’s pedantry is all the more endearing for Clarkson’s relentless needling. They are, in many ways, the perfect odd couple—two men who, for all their differences, bring out the best (and sometimes the worst) in each other.
Off-screen, the rivalry takes on a gentler tone. May has spoken warmly of Clarkson’s generosity, his intelligence, and his ability to surprise even those who know him best. But he’s also quick to point out the ways in which their differences have shaped his own sense of self. The constant comparisons, the friendly competition, the knowledge that he will always be measured against his larger-than-life co-star—these are the realities of life in Clarkson’s orbit.
And yet, for all the barbs and the battles, there is a deep vein of affection that runs through their partnership. May may call Clarkson his nemesis, but he does so with a twinkle in his eye—a recognition that, without each other, neither would be quite as successful, or as beloved, as they are today. It’s a rivalry that has powered some of British television’s most iconic moments, a friendship forged in fire and fuel, and a reminder that even the biggest personalities need someone to keep them honest.
As for the worst thing Clarkson ever did? For May, it’s not the steak incident, the on-air gaffes, or the endless pranks. It’s the way those moments have forced him to look inward, to question his own choices, and to wonder—just for a moment—if he’s become more like his nemesis than he’d care to admit. “I have to go home, examine myself very deeply and think: what have I done?” he jokes, but beneath the humour lies a kernel of truth.
In the end, the story of James May and Jeremy Clarkson is the story of a rivalry that’s as much about love as it is about loathing. It’s the story of two men who, for all their differences, have built something enduring—something that’s brought joy to millions and, occasionally, driven each other up the wall. As May himself might put it: it’s complicated, it’s messy, and it’s all the better for it.
So the next time you see James May wandering the streets of London, or propping up the bar in his Wiltshire pub, spare a thought for the man behind the myth—the man who, for all his calm and composure, is still grappling with the shadow of his greatest nemesis. And if you happen to mistake him for Jeremy Clarkson? Well, don’t be surprised if he gives you a look that says: “Really? Him again?”
Because for James May, the rivalry isn’t just part of the act. It’s the story of his life—a story that, like all the best ones, is still being written.
