Here’s a true story about a very little man. A few years ago a bunch of journalist friends of mine were lucky enough to be given VIP Access All Area passes to Glastonbury. As they were standing in line, waiting to get into the VIP area, a very little man and woman shoved past them and tried to get through to the front of the queue. Bemused, they watched as the very little man was turned back by security and told to wait his turn. At this, the very little man became enraged. “What is the fucking hold-up!” he yelled. “Do you know who I am?” He then pounded his very little fists against the fence in a full-on tantrum while even his lady companion looked on in horrified fascination. The very little man was Richard Hammond, and he did not like being kept waiting. It was embarrassing for all concerned, as witnesses sadly called friends on their mobiles to let them know about the very little man’s breakdown. It was also a clear sign of the bloated self-importance of the Top Gear presenter, and the programme itself.
Richard Hammond. James May. Jeremy Clarkson. A little trio of un-reconstructed public schoolboys given free reign on the BBC to spin the clock back to 1974. Birds are to be mocked or salivated over. Cars should be big and fast and macho. Foreigners are silly. Clarkson, left on his own, would probably offend himself just to hear the sound of his own voice. With the pet chipmunk and the slow-witted acid casualty in tow, he is unstoppable. Pump air, suck gas, let the clutch out with a bang. They bestride the globe, burning fuel and spouting hot air, stamping on national sensitivities as they reinforce that old English stereotype: the posh knobhead. They need banning.
Let’s take them in order of height. Richard Hammond. Now there’s a man made for local radio. Hammond comes across as Eric Idle doing a cheesy reporter on Monty Python. He talks in bombastic sentences, trying desperately to emulate housemaster Clarkson, but unable to carry it off with the required amount of balls because he is so obviously, eye-battingly in love with Jeremy. It’s quite sweet. Hammond is like one of those men who lived at home with his mum a little bit too long, and was made up when Take That reformed. He is, in fact, actually a girl. This explains why, with his careful hair, he looks like a lesbian.
James May. What’s wrong with James May? He’s just an enthusiast. He likes gadgets and toys and the 1970s and collecting things and, oh sir, sir can we all go outside and play conkers, sir, can we? You imagine he has a yo-yo and some fireworks in his pocket, and you feel like someone should wipe muck off his face with a spitted hanky and tuck in his shirt. He’s like Dennis the Menace with no menace. He’s a child. He talks with sulky slowness and God dammit why should he grow up when there is global warming and war and poverty in the grown-up world, and wouldn’t it just be better to build a steam rocket and have a glass of ginger ale?
Clarkson. Clarkson can be very funny. He knows what he is doing, and he’s very good at it. He punched Piers Morgan, and he gets more brownie points for that. But the joke has worn fag-paper thin. Do we need to see his fat arse bombing around Vietnam, crassly insulting everything in his path? Do we need him to wreck another pristine bit of countryside to show that he just doesn’t give a damn and we’re all woolly do-gooders who should let the boys have their fun? I don’t think so. I think Top Gear and the pathetic boy-with-toys industry is well past its sell-by date. They should banned, if not for the sake of he planet, for the sake of the TV schedules.
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