I love Top Gear. My love for it knows no bounds, and is equalled only by my love for James May, who is very likely the most adorable man on television, and who I am just dying to rescue from Bully Clarkson. James is a man who says "bloody Nora" when under pressure, for heaven's sake. Or when shoved by his colleague into a river full of crocodiles responds with: "Such an insufferable oaf." Such men are NOT easy to find these days, people. Not easy at all.
James is undoubtedly the love of my life (my crushes are almost always characterised by the object of my attention's inability to brush their hair), but I like the programme for other reasons also. It is difficult not to love a show that thinks turning a Toyota truck into a boat and driving it across the English Channel is a good idea. Or that thinks firing a Mini off a ski-jump is worth it. Or strikes its presenters cars with lightning, just for the hell of it. Or takes off the roof of a people carrier and takes it through Woburn Safari Park.
It is hilariously funny, but also applicable to every day life. For example, whenever Monkey's notoriously unreliable Rover breaks down for the fifth time in six hours, one or both of us will exclaim: "Which slovenly Midlander built this?!" in the words of Jeremy Clarkson himself. Or, when one's SatNav has let one down yet again, who doesn't mutter "Permission to say 'oh, cock'"?
I'm going to own up right now and say that I've been watching Top Gear for years and years without paying the slightest attention to the car reviews. Top Gear appeals to two sorts of people: boys who know their shit about cars (Monkey is one of these) and who care about Ford GTs, Bugatti Veyrons and God knows what else. It also appeals to people like me, who know nothing about supercars, but I like watching three grown men acting like they're down the pub except on a £100,000 budget. A cameraman I worked with a few months ago told me he had stopped working for Top Gear. "If I wanted to work on scripted drama, I'd work on scripted drama," he said. Top Gear is only getting more scripted, especially since Richard Hammond's crash. But there are still beautiful moments, when you can tell something unexpected has happened and it's handled brilliantly. And then there's the moments where Jeremy Clarkson finds something genuinely funny and laughs. Clarkson's smile and laugh is an amazing thing, where his face reverts to the face of a five-year-old cheeky boy and you feel for the first time you may be able to like him.
But anyway. Cars are on my mind.
My first car was a Renault Clio which was not so much unreliable as a fucking death trap, going well beyond a joke and out the other side. Being only a year old, Renault finally took it off my hands because they couldn't work out what was wrong with it and felt, on the whole, that they should try and find out for the safety of future generations. As far as I was concerned, what was wrong with it was that it would randomly cut out at above 60mph, I'd lose everything and have to ditch the fucking thing. My second car was a Citroen C2 (in a hideous colour) that I wrote off ignomoniously on the A9, that particular graveyard of vehicular transport claiming yet another victim. My boyfriend at the time was particularly annoyed partly because he'd been asleep at the time so had woken up somewhat suddenly in the side of a tree and partly because I'd skidded on black ice, despite there being a hundred signs warning me of this very hazard (he was from Inverness and used to black ice, I was from North London and wasn't). In fairness, the signs didn't warn me that there'd be a BMW in my way, too.
After that calamity I took a year off driving and finally bought a new Volkswagen Polo. I adore it. I love it. If I could bring it into the house, feed it dinner and tuck it up in bed every night I would. But that was three years ago, and since my finances are somewhat precarious, I've decided that with my savings I need to get rid of my adored Polo and buy something else. I probably don't really need a car, living in London and all, but I want one and that's really that. I'm no petrolhead - I know next to nothing about the mechanics and couldn't locate the engine with a metal detector, but I absolutely love cars. I love them. I love driving, and I don't want to be without a car.
So I have started really paying attention. Today on a ten minute drive I saw five yellow cars. Five yellow cars! Yellow cars are rare! Why were there suddenly five all in Kentish Town High Street? Most bizarre. I am not going to buy a yellow car, though. That is pretty much certain.
It does turn out I have been listening to Top Gear all along. I am flirting with the idea of a Toyota Aygo. This notion is half based on its Top Gear-proven skillz at Car Football (and heaven knows West Hampstead can sometimes turn into a massive game of Car Football), and partly based on the fact it sponsors Hollyoaks. I have also been looking at a Fiat Panda, based entirely on the fact James May owns one. I don't much care for the colours, though....
My God. I'm turning into a boring person. I'll be on about motorways next.
Speaking of which, the A9....
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