Chapter 39: Top Gear Special (Part 1) (Patreon)

Chapter 39: Top Gear Special (Part 1)

Dunsfold Aerodrome Surrey, UK. July 2008.

[Tonight! 

James May hits the breaks. Skree! The squealing of tyres as we suddenly came to a halt complimented our various oomphs and groans when we slammed back into our seats. “Oh, cock!” May turned back in the driver’s seat and addressed the camera operator crammed in the less than spacious back seat of the two-door car the three of us were test driving. “Shit-! I mean sorry about that - didn’t mean to swear.”

Richard Hammond almost hits the tarmac. “That’s it, c’mon! Give it a bit more. She can take it.” The constriction banding across my belly had less to do with concern and more with Hammond clutching me to maintain a grip on the seat behind me. “Remember to lean forward if you pop a wheelie, and don’t smile too hard when you do; otherwise you’ll be picking flies out of your teeth for a week!” 

And Jeremy Clarkson hits the fan. “Poweeeer!” The roaring wind battered us, the rotors spinning at full speed, were as deafening as they were distorting. My hair flapped in the face of the gust only half as much as Jeremy’s jiggling jowls. 

On Top Gear.]

The three legendary presenters dressed in hideous combinations of denim, corduroy, tweed, and flannel stood in-the-round at the centre of the hanger that served as the stage for the studio, absorbing applause.

Each shot that played out in the preview of the episode being filmed today was cleverly cut to disguise my appearance as much as possible.

Between not being in frame, having my head shoved inside the helmet, and being filmed from the back, even I couldn’t tell who the special guest for the episode was. And it was me.

“Welcome back, welcome back to series twelve of Top Gear.” Clarkson settled the audience as May and Hammond waved sporadically between the camera and the crowd. “Now, normally as the episodes in our program progresses, the three of us have a tendency to, how shall I put it? Get uglier with each subsequent episode as a result of the enormous amount of work we put in, as well as the corresponding volume of alcohol we must consume in order to cope.” 

“Hold on a minute, uglier? Speak for yourselves.” Hammond indignantly tried to shield himself.

“Yes, quite right. You only get shorter.” But May found a way to stab him, anyway. “There is an excellent reason, you dear viewers at home, will have to stare at three melting puddles of ice cream at the start of a brand new series this coming winter.”

When the deal between the studios for my appearance on Top Gear was being struck, the timing of its release was quite deliberate. Close enough to the theatrical run of Tropic Thunder - the movie would still be in cinemas globally and as such would reap the benefits of my appearance on an internationally beloved show. Kicking off the newest season of Top Gear itself, as well as pre-empting the press junket and first look at Half-Blood Prince. My one and only request was the general concept as a birthday gift to myself.

“And it’s got us - pan the camera around - and a disproportionately young and feminine attendance rather hot under the collar.” Clarkson pointed out the people in the studio. “The only time I’m allowed around so many young women is when I drop my daughter off at school. All of whom usually run away, screaming in horror, at the first sight of my wrinkles.” 

“Youths.” May complained about them.

“Leave it! Right, well. But we’re not sweaty solely due to the weather. Like any parent shakily handing over the keys of the family saloon over to their spotty teenage son, we are nervous.” Hammond emphatically gestured towards the nearest lens. “Because this specific teenager has foolishly handed the responsibility of choosing his first car to three of the biggest bell ends on television.”

“No, no, Hammond. It’s exactly the opposite. I think every young person should have to go through us before wasting their parent’s hard earned money on something ridiculous, like a stereo system instead of proper tyres. In fact, it should be instituted as a legal rite of passage.” May kept swinging.

“Either way, buckle up everybody. Watch as we undergo the challenge of seeking the greatest first vehicle for the most famous teenager… in the wooorld!” Jeremy announced, signalling the editorial bay to play the clip.

–

[Littered with the criss-crossing scars of scalding rubber leaving black trails across and all over the cracked grey asphalt of the top gear test track, I still felt my own lightning fast steps were denting the road deeper than any set of tyres that had dug into it before.

You’d think I had a V8 engine hidden somewhere inside my body with how hard and fast I pumped my legs as I hastened over to Hammond and Clarkson, and later pistoned our joined hands in a bone rattling, skin smacking shake. “Bas Rhys, in the flesh. Handsome lad, it’s like looking at my own reflection.”

“Richard, you’d need a stepladder just to see your face in that mirror, and not even then would you look remotely alike.” Clarkson kicked him while he was down, but to be fair, given the height disparity, there really wasn’t any other way to do so. 

“Don’t worry, Mr Hammond. You’re totally as attractive as I am.” Best to get off on the right foot.

“Thank yo-!”

“Or at least you will be after your post-crash burn wounds heal.” Then kick him with the left.

“Oi! That’s not funny.” Two years wasn’t anywhere near too soon from his famous drag car crash, considering how Jeremy guffawed. 

Regardless of their choices being surprises, the vehicles the two had hidden under tarps beside us weren’t exactly inconspicuous. Hammond’s fully grown Great Dane sized and shaped offering was obvious. “It doesn’t take Scooby Doo and the gang to figure out what that mystery machine is.” What Clarkson had brought, though, was harder to unmask. It was round, at least. I doubted he expected me to balance on a log, but given the shape, “I haven’t the faintest clue what that could be.

“Ah! That’s for later. We’ve got to do this in turns, and James is first. Where is he, by the way?”

Hammond was quick to embrace the conversation, switching targets from him to James, and responded instantly to Clarkson. “Well, knowing May, he’s brought something so unreliable that it’s broken down on the road here.”

Similar to my excitement, V8 engines rumbled, “by the sound of that revving, it seems captain slow has finally arrived,” V12s, on the other hand, purred. 

James May pulled up, parked his car next to us, happily hopped out, and closed the door. The little puff of air from slamming it shut sent his scraggly hair blowing in the breeze, as he inflated himself with confidence. “Aston Martin DB9. 5.9-litre V12 engine roaring out a throaty four-hundred-and-fifty horsepower, which will have Harry Potter here racing nought-to-sixty in 4.6 seconds.” 

“James… you realise what you’ve brought, haven’t you? This isn’t a car, it’s a midlife crisis!” His words were acid, but Jeremy, like the rest of us, had his head filled with petrol. 

None of us could resist immediately approaching the car and running our fingers over its sleek curves. 

“It’s funny you say that, actually. This is the brand new 2008 model of the DB9, so it’s had a facelift.”

“Which suits me fine, honestly. I spend an inordinate amount of time in Hollywood, so I’m very familiar with the concept. Although no facelift I’ve seen thus far has been quite so pretty.”  

“That’s the ‘head-turner’ factor on the scoreboard ticked off for me, chaps. There isn’t a red carpet out there that won’t be soggy if you show up in one of these.” Fist pumping, May celebrated a little too quickly for his co-hosts’ sensibilities.

“Mate, the only thing that’s soggy is the actual owner of this car’s nappies. I’ll bet anything, right now, that he’s off somewhere in an overpriced country club, snoring away while his third wife - who’s half his age - is hitting on the nearest waiter.”

“You have to admit, May. Hammond’s got a point. That viagra in the glove box is surely expired.” Clarkson wasn’t gonna let them have all the fun.

“So say the men who, I urgently point out, have brought ‘a’ a death trap,” May thrust my attention and an accusatory finger at Hammond’s motorcycle, then at what Jeremy was adamant remained secret, “and ‘b’ a literal log of what I presume is metaphorical faeces.” 

Couldn’t let myself be discarded in the dust as these three put the banter in sport mode. “Those gentlemen's supplements might come in handy. Neither my team nor insurance adjusters have ever allowed me within six feet of a motorbike before, so the viagra might be the only thing keeping me up on two wheels.” And both momentarily and intermittently one - when I inevitably twisted the throttle bar. 

In stark contrast to the horrid set of dentures on Clarkson and May, Hammond flashed his far too bright set at me and whipped the sheet off his bike. “Aha! But you see, that’s where you’re wrong. This isn’t any old motorcycle - this is the latest and greatest edition of the Harley Davidson Fatboy. The vibrations on this beast alone will put the male enhancement industry out of business.” 

“You really should must surrender your UK passport and apply for US citizenship. A Harley isn’t just rubbish, like every motorcycle and their corresponding enthusiasts - it’s also unforgivably stupid.”

“We’re trying to impress the king of… Hoggywarts or whatever-”

“If you’ve not read or watched Harry Potter, just tell me.” Who’d have thought that the first thing squashed under the wheels would be my ego?

I remained unheard as James continued on unheeded. “-not Narnia. So take your closeted American self and lock the cupboard door behind you.”

On that note, Jeremy turned to the camera and crew beyond it, draped unavoidably in health and safety mandated high vis clothes, looking like walking traffic cones. “Before we devolve further into hysterics, perhaps I should explain today’s challenge. In order to help Bas empirically determine which of our three vehicles suits his high-flying superstar lifestyle best, we have ascribed three parameters with which he must judge our choices on. Bas, count us down, will you? One:”

Clarkson yanked me out by my neck as Hammond and May continued attacking each other’s throats. “Oh, er… first is the flash factor - or how easily it turns heads.” The Aston would win on looks, but the noise the Harley makes would certainly Garner more than a few glances.

“The second criteria is, of course, a top gear staple; the fizz factor. Better known as that instinctual response you get in your jubblies.” Clarkson added.

“I made sure to wear my silkiest pair of pants.” While I detracted. 

“Ending with the final frontier, the fast factor. Which is self explanatory. Bas will accomplish this by taking a timed spin in each vehicle around our track.”

“You know, while I am excited to get this show on the road,” even if you could only read via braille, you’d still be able to see what I did there, “I thought by now the boffins who work these challenges out would recognise that every time you do one of these rankings, the worst option always wins.”

“Precisely! Which means that despite being late to the starting podium, I’m going to be taking the lead and staying there.” 

My expectations were already low as soon as I heard him say that, but somehow I wasn’t prepared for them to be so damn flat on the floor.

“Clarkson, you imbecile!”

“What is that?”

“Tah-dah!” He peeled off the tarp. Yeah, he was absolutely gonna need magic to get this thing to run.

“Definitely has my head turning, I’ll give you that.” Although, maybe describing the motion as tilted in confusion might be more accurate.]