I hate Top Gear

I hate Top Gear. Why do I watch it? Because I hate it so much that’s why.

It encompasses everything I deplore about that section of society I dislike so much in one neat package. Usually there’s a bit of good and bad in everything, but I can quite honestly put my hand on my heart and say that everything about this program disgusts me.

Firstly, there’s the audience.

Overweight receding white men with tight jeans, Timberlands and fleece jackets. A sporty BMW, the Sunday Times motoring section, The Darkness, a home in Rickmansworth. You can see them now, all lined up like a whose ugliest competition waiting to laugh at Jeremy’s boorish student humour (Say something and make a face, easy).

Which brings me to secondly, the presenters.

Jeremy Clarkson, sneering at cheap cars and how much he hates public transport. The more hateful his opinions, the more the sycophant Clives laugh along, acknowledging the acceptability of conservatism because it’s on the BBC. Then there’s the little one, the annoying little shit who will disagree with everything Jeremy says because that’s what good little Tories do. You can tell he idolises him though, those twinkling eyes are a giveaway. Finally there’s the posh twat, the faux public schoolboy who still lives in an era when gentlemen drove roadsters and beat their wives up on Sunday afternoons after Cricket practice. Words begin to fail me at this point.

Last weeks guest was Roger Daltrey, lead singer of arguably the worlds greatest ever Rock and Roll band, The Who. Jeremy moans because bands these days, like Maroon 5, don’t live the Rock and Roll lifestyle. You have to wonder how many of the Clives in the audience had any idea what Rock and Roll is, or what sort of music Jeremy and the chums are listening to whilst queued up on the M4. Before signing off Jeremy tells Roger that he’s going to listen to Who’s next on the way home.

Daltrey’s bemused face is an absolute picture.

Think about Jeremy Clarkson singing along to Baba OReily in his Aston Martin, whilst driving home to his mock tudor residence through the Buckinghamshire countryside. Really quite depressing isn’t it?

That’s exactly the kind of image that made Kurt Cobain give up on Rock and Roll music and turn to suicide.

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