Let's add some specific context to the scene Clarkson refers to. In the author's own words.
Once we got her clothes off her, though, she was just another whore.
Women were always the cruelest where other women were concerned.
“My wife has sweeter teats than those
“she’s saggy as my mum
Want a suck on this, Your Grace?” A man in a butcher’s apron pulled his cock out of his breeches, grinning.
She did not feel beautiful, though. She felt old, used, filthy, ugly. There were stretch marks on her belly from the children she had borne, and her breasts were not as firm as they had been when she was younger. Without a gown to hold them up, they sagged against her chest.
And then there was no stopping the tears. They burned down the queen’s cheeks like acid. Cersei gave a sharp cry, covered her nipples with one arm, slid her other hand down to hide her slit, and began to run, shoving her way past the line of Poor Fellows, crouching as she scrambled crab-legged up the hill. Partway up she stumbled and fell, rose, then fell again ten yards farther on. The next thing she knew she was crawling, scrambling uphill on all fours like a dog as the good folks of King’s Landing made
way for her, laughing and jeering and applauding her
That's what Clarkson and probably Morgan were salivating over.