Tonight: Is a Peugeot faster than two men? Has Lamborghini gone mad again? And can the lads build a whole car in eight hours?
These are just some of the questions that are answered in this week’s ep. We start off with Clarkson in the studio talking about people carriers. “Now, we’ve always said they’re for people who have really just given up on life. You know, it’s born, married, children, people carrier, Stannah stairlift, dead. http://www.stannah.com/service/stairlifts/ Now there are some that are supposed to be sensible and fun to drive. So Richard and James have been out and about to see what’s what.”
Cut to Hammond zipping around in a silver people carrier, telling us that today’s task is to find a family car “that has some zest and charisma, a car that says ‘dads, don’t despair.’” The silver jobbie is the Ford SMAX, www.autoblog.com which is similar to the Galaxy, but with big alloy wheels and three inches shorn off the headspace, so it’s sportier and lower, respectively. It’s also available with the turbocharged engine from the Ford Focus, so it’s faster too.
Cut to May in a lovely red Mercedes B Class. www.turbosquid.com May: Keen students of the alphabet will probably have worked out all ready that this is one up from the A Class. I guess there’s not too much to discuss about this one, except for the tidbit that this prides itself on having the maximum interior space for the least amount of exterior size. This is the B 200 version with turbo power. Lastly, it makes James feel good.
Back to Hammond driving a Luton Vauxhall Zafira VXR in a less lovely shade of red than the Mercedes. www.autoplanet.co.uk “Blimey!” Hammond exclaims as he wrestles with the 2L turbo engine. It develops 237 bhp, making it the fastest MPV. Fast it may be, but the driver seems to have some trouble controlling the steering.
Standing on the edge of a track, May in his vibrant fuschia and navy rugby shirt, Hammond in a dark brown jacket and sweater, we learn that the three people carriers are directly comparable on a few levels. All are turbocharged, and all cost (base price) between 20-23 000 pounds. This being Top Gear, they address the most important question first: which is fastest? They need an independant adjudicator to determine this: someone who has no mortgage, no 9-to-5 job, and no children. It’s the Stig. The Stig starts out in the B Class, the least powerful of the three at 190 hp. Going through the corners, the suspension looks not so good, swaying around like an interpretive dancer. Richard, holding the stopwatch: What’s it look like? May (watching through binoculars): Slow. But it’s also the smallest and lightest, and comes in at 3:36:06. Next up: the SMAX. Richard (surprised): Wheel-spinning start. May (approvingly): Very un-family. It seems to have stiffer suspension and goes around the corners better. It is the second most powerful and the biggest, and comes in at 1:37:03. Finally it’s the Zafira’s turn. May (Stuttering to imitate the start): Be-be-be-be… Hammond: All the wheels spin on a revlimiter action. May’s attention must have drifted during the lap as he notes a “jolly nice old church over there.” It may be the quickest on paper, but it can’t use its power effectively, and comes in at 1:36:44. Recapping for us, the boys discover that the Mercedes is fastest, the Ford slowest. Richard experimentally bashes his stopwatch in bafflement.
Next under the microscope is the styling of the cars. Hammond: Most family cars are boring to look at, but these three have made an effort to look lively. Unfortunately, the Zafira has tried too hard; the guys like the 18 inch alloys but find the skirts and spoilers a bit too midlife crisis. They approve of the big AMG wheels on the Mercedes, but everything about the interior is a bit too dark and dull. However, with the SMAX as with Goldilocks, the third time is just right. The interior is up-to-date and the outside is smooth and sleek. Hammond points out the nice gills behind the front wheels.
For the final test, Hammond and May take the three out for road tests. Captain Slow takes the wheel of the Zafira. May: It does go quite well but it torque steers like a– Hammond (interrupting): Yes, basically, it just sets off in whichever way the wheels want to go at any given moment. In voiceover, he continues: And the lairyness wasn’t the only problem. (to James): Are you comfortable? May: No, not really. I think it’s a bit jiggly.
Hammond drives the Mercedes. May tries a preemptive strike: It’s got quite a lot of kit, but I know what you’re going to say. Hammond: It costs a lot of money! May: It’s 23 grand, actually. Hammond (sensing the loophole): But this one costs…? May: 31. Hammond cracks up. May: You know the little button that makes the mirrors fold back. 145 quid. Hammond giggles. He thinks his kids would really like the enormous sunroof, and geeks about being able to hear the turbo.
In the final drive, the two agree that the SMAX sounds good. May offers more: It has turbo, but not the mad torque-steer. Hammond: Ride’s a good compromise. You can feel the bumps, but you could say it was informative but not uncomfortable. May: Absolutely. If you were a bit of an idiot, you could say that.
Hammond gives us a final summing up on the road: With the VXR, it’s a lot of fun; it’s the fastest, it’s got turbo, the childish stuff is great. But actually day to day, it’s going to drive you round the twist. In voiceover: Whatever the difference is, the amazing thing was that we’d spent a day driving people carriers and we hadn’t lost the will to live. That’s Hammond; always looking on the bright side.
Back in the studio, Clarkson and Hammond discuss the results of the film. Basically, all three are fun to drive, the Mercedes is the fastest round the track but is the most expensive and only has five seats. Clarkson dismisses it on these faults and moves onto the Zafira, praising it for the “brilliant seat arrangement in the back, ok, so you don’t have to lift the seats in and out. They just fold in the floor and you just sort of…” He yanks on the seat handle, but it doesn’t move. Hammond (encouragingly): Just lift it out. When Clarkson fails again, “You lift it out, you fool,” and dives into action. His tugs produce an identical result. “Yeah, that’s not coming.” Clarkson calls for audience participation; lo, there’s a woman with familiarity with the seats. She instructs them to move the rear seats forward. The lads scoff: We knew that! but run and put the seats forward. Her directions enable the lads to get the seats to pop right up.. The drawback is that even moving the seats forward gives you too small a gap to actually get into the fold away seats, and now there’s also no trunk space.
Hammond tells us that these things aren’t problems with the Ford. Having had a practive, he’s able to flip up the seats with ease. Clarkson demonstrates that there’s a bigger gap to slide into those seats (well, Hammond might manage it) and Hammond shows that there’s still boot room. He demonstrates this by picking up a reluctant Top Gear Dog and stuffing her in. Clarkson: She has a use! Hammond (apparently delusional): She can go in quite happily! Clarkson adds a disclaimer: No dogs were harmed in the making of this program. Hammond tells her to watch her head and shuts her in. She looks reproachfully through the window. I don’t think she’s quite wild about cars. Clarkson: This is one hell of a good car. Hammond: Oh yeah, we’ve got a conclusion. It’s the most practical, it’s not the fastest round the track but in the real world, it’s the best one to drive, it’s the best looking, and if you get the basic one, it’s the cheapest. The audience applauds.
In the studio, Clarkson tells us that the Porsche 911 was designed to be as fast as the laws of physics allow–and that’s great, but it’s rather a serious car; it doesn’t have much of a sense of humor. It’s the same with the Ferrari 430–you really don’t want to sit next to someone who owns one at dinner in case he starts telling you about the five-way traction control. There is, however, a supercar that is slightly different.
www.seriouswheels.com
There’s a shot of the Lamborghini bull badge on a bright yellow car, followed by various angles of car porn. Lambos are quite distinctive. Clarkson: Lamborghinis are for people who want to move about in a big pantomime. Massive West End musical full of color and noise, and to hell with how fast you can go round a corner. Unfortunately, the Gallardo, the baby Lambo, never quite cut the mustard. It’s not as nice to drive as a Ferrari 430. The steering isn’t quite as delicate, there’s less immediacy from the engine and there’s not quite as much poise. It still isn’t a proper driver’s car. That would be fine if it were flamboyant and mad, but it isn’t. It feels like a big Audi TT.
I’ll take his word for it. I think most Lambos are aggressively ugly and I couldn’t really care less how they handle. However, this is a bit more likeable. There’s a shot of the rear glass sliding down and the top sinking away on a gray Lambo. The convertible version costs 131 000 pounds, and Clarkson is delighted that the lunacy is back. The color scheme is quite striking, with the gray exterior and orange leather seats–it makes me happy for some reason that it’s a left hand drive. There’s more car porn. It looks pretty good, but there are faults: the steering wheel is covered in an inexplicable bathmat texture, and if you push the seat all the way back, as the very tall Clarkson must, the seat squeaks relentlessly against the firewall and you can’t find the seatbelt. Clarkson: And I don’t care! He drifts around a corner so fiercely it’s almost completely sideways. “You’ll have people coming up to you and saying, ‘Oh, you could have gone round that corner 0.0003 seconds faster if you’d had a Ferrari.’ and “Oooh, you know it’s 100 kg heavier than the coupe, don’t you?’ And it doesn’t matter because I’ve got 93 million miles of headroom and I’ve got orange seats and listen to this!” The engine revs and he makes delighted faces. You’ve got to like that about Clarkson–he so viscerally enjoys the cars he drives. It’s got a five liter, V10 engine with “512 rampaging Italian horsepowers.” The understeer is really quite substantial, but Clarkson says “I want more of thiiiiiiiiiiis! I’m in love!” It has 4 wheel drive so there’s lots of grip, it does 0-60 in 4.7 seconds, has a top speed of 195 mph, and it has a proper gearbox–the flappy paddle stuff is a 5000 pound option. What’s more, Lamborghini is owned by Audi, so there’s some German common sense along with the outrageous styling. The nose can raise when you hit a speedbump, and the interior controls are from an A8, so they’re actually functional. For example, Clarkson says: The old air conditioner used to be an asthmatic sitting in the dashboard blowing at you through a straw. His favorite thing about the car is its looks; he calls it desperately pretty and tiny–it’s the same length as a Ford Focus, so it’s easy to drive in town and park, something you could drive every day. It also has the quality Clarkson looks for most in a car: it’s a laugh.
I think there must have been an edit, because there’s no information on Stig’s lap or how it ranks. Boo!
Then we go to the Star in the Reasonably Priced Car. Our guest tonight went around the world in 80 days–hopefully he did better around the TG track. Steve Coogan!
He comes out from the audience and seems to be a funny, nice guy with a haircut somewhat reminiscent of James May. He once did a film with John Cleese–Wind in the Willows–and at the time drove a red Ferrari, the Magnum PI model. Cleese saw him driving off one day and said to the producer: Who’s driving that Ferrari? “Steve Coogan.” “He’s a very very talented young man, isn’t he?” “Yeah, he is.” “I do hope he gets cancer.” His Cleese impression is pretty good. Clarkson is envious of his life because pretty much everything he touches turns to gold. He’s had a few misses, but had a good time doing them. In Around the World in 80 Days, he’s got this scene in a hot tub where he’s sitting between Jackie Chan and Arnold Schwartzenegger, “In a Chan-Schwartzenegger sandwich.” He wants to make some small talk, so he asks Arnold if he still drives his Hummer. “Yes, I have five. One is military, ex-military, stripped out. I like to drive it around LA. With my cigar.” His Arnold impression is also pretty good. His new show is Saxondale, about a pest controller. They show a clip of him at the house of a motoring journalist who has a tv program about cars. I know I remember in the less abridged version shown On Demand that Coogan saying that he was going to base it on Clarkson but didn’t for some reason. Darn edits! At any rate, he’s shown spinning out on a practice lap. On his timed lap, he says a little prayer, “Please let me be faster than Rob Brydon, please!” He cuts a corner and sighs. Has some trouble with the gearbox. Clarkson reports that the Stig said he thought the heat might have done something to Coogan. Or the car, or the track, or something, because he was very complimetary about Coogan’s driving–very competent, late braking, aggressive; all the good things except quick. He comes in at 1:50:09, which is kind of poor, but still quite a bit faster than the Prince of Darkness. In pity, Clarkson annotates his time with (H) for Hot–the track, not the lap.
This week, May is in Liverpool with the Peugeot 207. www.telegraph.co.uk It’s Peugeot’s biggest small car yet. This example is blue, and May says it’s very pretty, but is it any good? On the inside, there’s things like an iPod (he pronounces it ip-od) connection, there’s sat-nav, radio, and so forth, and it’s rather beautifully lit by a Californian architect’s glass sunroof thing. On the downside, the interior trends to look like the interior of Jacque Cousteau’s wetsuit, and, rather oddly, there’s a built-in air freshener that smells “something like wang chung or jojoba oil.” So you get more space and more toys, but to counterbalance, you have to part with more of your money. For the 1.6 L diesel, it’s almost 15 000 pounds, which is a lot of money for a small car. He’s going to road test it on the streets of Liverpool, starting at a parking garage, and “to spur me on a bit, I’m going to have a race and it’s against the latest French development in urban transport solutions. A couple of young men in silly trousers.” These aren’t just two random guys off the street, they’re traceurs, practitioners of parkour, which is all about moving from one point to another as efficiently and quickly as possible, running at a pretty good clip and jumping and climbing over obstacles.
They’re off. The traceurs tear off down the ramp (in defiance of the “No Pedestrian” signs), and jump over the Peugeot when May has to stop. May explains more about parkour, “*sigh* It’s a French invention and it involves *that* sort of thing. Running around the city, leaping across benches and buildings. You know, keeps them off the street.” The traceur in a white tshirt must be the more experienced of the two; he takes the lead and I award many style points for his acrobatics. He dives over a railing, executes a straight-leg somersault, and lands, three levels down, rolls, bounces up, and keeps running. The other traceur just jumps. May is still going down ramps in the parking garage. The race is to the Liver Building, which is pronounced Lie-ver instead of Liv-er. No word on why, then, it’s not Lie-verpool. A mystery we must live with for the duration of the race. For May, the distance is 6 miles.
The lead traceur makes a series of stylish jumps down to the pavement. May is out on the street, going about 25 mph, and says with satisfaction that they’ll have difficulty matching that. The traceurs make a jump in tandem and race through a fountain, while May says that the car has a nice driving position, the steering is nice and weighty, the seat is excellent, and there’s quite a bit more “rrrrroom” than in the old one. Problem is that it’s 300 pounds heavier due to the increased size and additional gizmos, as well as more safety equipment, but the engine has not been upgraded. James is held up at a stoplight; he hits the steering wheel with his palms in mild frustration as we see the traceurs blow through a shopping arcade. In voice over, May explains that not only were the scouse spidermen unstoppable, they also knew where they were going. Advantage: traceurs. He has to stop to ask a fellow for directions to the Liver Building. He actually catches up to the traceurs momentarily on the street, and thinks they look as if they’ve nicked something. Alas, another red light! May groans, “Oh, pleeeeeease!” and the air freshener device was really starting to bother him. “That’s great. You can buy a brand-new car and they immediately make it smell like 25 year old minicab.” His turn signal clicks as the traceurs jump through the air, backflipping off things. May (frustrated, raising his voice): Come on, we’re not all shopping here! He has just two more miles to go in his sluggish Peugeot. “I’m not going be beaten by some prepubescent teenagers in camoflage trousers.” He figures that he’s averaged 10-12 mph, so he should be able to win. He reaches the Liver Building to find himself alone on the street. “They’re not here! They are not here! No sight of combat trousers. That is a victory for beer guts over washboard stomachs, fashionable clothes from army surplus shops. Stupid, expensive trousers. Here I am in my tatty jeans and my old biff-about shoes with the broken laces and I’ve won!” He’s really quite pleased with himself. However, there’s a cut, and the lead traceur is doing a handstand near the top of the building while the other stands, hands behind his back, in wide stance, surveying the skyline. May looks up: Oh, for Pete’s sake!
Leaving the triumph of washboard abs in Liverpool, we’re back in the studio. Clarkson is standing in front of a map of the UK, and explains that they’re going to have a very special race at the Knockhill circuit in Scotland. There are two teams–the Stig on one, the three presenters on the other, and the cars are Caterhams, which are kit cars. commons.wikimedia.org Hammond tells us that what makes this race different is that the winner isn’t the first across the finish line, it’s the first to cross the starting line. Clarkson clears up the confusion: At precisely 9 in the morning, Stig will leave the Caterham factory (in Surrey) and he will drive to Scotland. Meanwhile we will start here, at the track. Sounds like we have a huge advantage, but before we can set off, we have to build our car from scratch. So, can we do that faster than the Stig could drive to Scotland?
The clock shows 8:50. Team 2 is in a pit garage at Knockhill track, fetchingly arrayed in a variety of black and/or red coveralls, and the camera cuts to pan the pieces of the car. Hammond shows off the satellite tracking system by which they can monitor the Stig’s process. Clarkson lets us know the bona fides of the presenters as they are ideally suited for the job in hand: he trained as a local newspaper reporter, Hammond as a local radio DJ, and May as a pianist. The clock rings, and Stig is off. Clarkson: He’s off! He’s moved! And prances over to the body of the car. In voiceover, Clarkson informs us that the pianist had appointed himself project leader and insisted that everybody read the manual. ‘We’ve only got eight hours! I can’t read that in eight hours! Rubbish! Don’t need that.” and tosses it behind him. I must say that Clarkson must have a very short attention span not to be able to read the instructions in eight whole hours. I might agree that understanding them well might take considerably longer than that. Stig has 465 miles to cover and was a man on a mission. James, however, wasn’t. Cut to him murmuring: spacer bush, 3/8 ID, 1/2 OD, 35 mm. He’s being rather vague about whether washers are needed, which frustrates Clarkson, who wants a simple yes or no, and lectures May. “You’ve got to be faster than you are being. Speed is what matters today, seriously. Guess and go fast.” “Shut up, Jeremy.”
The Stig is being generous and is plowing straight through London traffic instead of going around on the M25. Clarkson: Why is he doing that? It must be an ‘I am going as the crow flies, I am a Stig.” Hammond concurs: Straight line. I will not deviate. While he’s stopped, we work like madmen.
Clarkson finds a hammer: Now that’s what I’m talking about. How to build a car. With a ball-peen hammer? Mad indeed. Hammond and May ratchet things into place to the tune of Clarkson’s hammering. “It’s broken.” May (testily) don’t hit it with a hammer. Clarkson: Why? May (firmly) Cause it’s the tool of a pikey.
Clarkson in voiceover: Stig is on the M40 and had the hammer down. I too put my hammer down and picked up a spanner. Something was bound to go wrong. Cut to Clarkson looking at the car with bewilderment. ” How did I do that?” Hammond is eager to enlighten: You did it because you dumped it in, didn’t look, and slid underneath. *laughs* The drivers’ seat is facing the rear window. Clarkson: Have I got to take it out again? May and Hammond trip over each other in the rush to respond. May: You have. Hammond: Let’s think about it.
May in voiceover: No matter, the Stig was still 400 miles away and coming to a halt again, this time at the Oxford services. Clarkson: He’s at Oxford, and we’re putting the engine in. (Raises arms in triumph.) Victory is ours! They begin raising the engine. May: Meanwhile, down in Oxford, the Stig was revealing something new about himself. (He’s walking through a glassed-in hall; people are taking pictures with cameras and cellphones.) He has a bladder. Cut from the Stig walking into the bathroom to the lads running over May’s foot with the engine hoist–he hops away while Hammond giggles. The three all talk over each other about how to mount the engine, as the camera shows a racing game at the service’s arcade: places 1-5 are owned by Stig, with identical times of 1:39:39. And here, it must be said, the Stig has a pretty nice butt.
The fellows are messing with the engine; it’s pointed at the car. Clarkson: we’ve got to get this rounds. May: Yeah, exactly, but you’re going to–Hammond: NO! It appears that the car is nudged off the jack stands by Clarkson and crashes to the floor. Hammond bends over, leaning on the hoist, head buried on arm: Where’s the Stig? Burning up the road, looks like. Clarkson, predictably, bellows: Whose fault is that? Hammond, recovered: Oh, that’s not gonna help, is it?! Clarkson inspects the carnage; the car is resting on the brakes: How strong are brake discs? May: Pretty strong. Clarkson: Are they strong enough to withstand a car? Hammond: No. Clarkson: You know, when I was underneath putting the seat in, I specifically said–Hammond (testily): Yes? Clarkson: Can it fall off its things? And you said no! May (dryly): What a shame it didn’t.
Next shot is Clarkson holding up the front end: Quickly! Quickly! I’m gonna drop the car. Hammond (soothing condescendingly): You’re all right. There you go. Everybody’s happy. In voiceover, Clarkson worries that the Stig was near Birmingham and their engine still wasn’t in. May: You know what the problem is. Clarkson: What. May: Because the garage is built on the cock and it’s all on a slope, we really need the car pointing that way (points out 90 degrees.) Clarkson: James, we haven’t got time. We have to move the engine out, turn the whole car around (Hammond in the background looks appalled), move the jacks–look. He’s just about to get on the M42. Seriously. Clarkson continues in voiceover: Annoyingly, the pianist was right. They bob around the car, getting it pointed in the right direction and the jack stands underneath the frame, and then it’s back to the problem of the engine. Clarkson and May stand at the front end; May is pushing on the engine in a futile attempt to get it down in the compartment. Clarkson: James, tell me what to do and I’ll push it down. Hammond (voice raised, hanging onto the hoist): It’s all right, I’ve got it, don’t worry about the big heavy engine and the small guy holding it. Clarkson takes it over, and May instructs him to be ready to stop lowering the engine as soon as he says. Hammond is red-faced and sweaty and grunting with the effort. Clarkson questions May’s plan of attack, to which he responds: Yeah, I know, Jeremy. What are you suggesting, we just lie it on top? Now, there’s an amusing image. Meanwhile, Hammond is herniating: Can we not bicker now?!? Clarkson: Jiggle it! Hammond: I’m jiggling like a bugger. There’s another amusing image. Hammond’s on the ground pushing the undercarriage with a pole. May directs Clarkson to lower the engine. Hammond: Oh, Jeremy! May (sternly): I didn’t mean to release it all together. Hammond is more direct and upset: You just dropped it through the bloody car! He lays on the ground in frustration. Clarkson, not taking the criticism well, tries to divert attention from himself: He is 299 miles away. At Stig speeds, that could be an hour.
In voiceover, Hammond reports that Clarkson was sacked from engine management, and that he and James did it themselves. Hammond: It’s in. Clarkson: yes? Hammond: that was easy. Enthusiasm recovered, Clarkson demands that they start it up, so Hammond has to rush to dampen his enthusiasm: It’s not *that* in. All the brakes have to be connected up, the rest of the ancillaries, battery, throttle linkage, clutch linkage, gear linkage. There’s quite a lot to do if we’re honest. Now onto other tasks, Clarkson has apparently been complaining about something. May, the voice of reason and method: Look at the picture. Clarkson: It doesn’t tell me anything. May: It does! Clarkson (stubbornly): They may as well just have photographed your arse! Obviously, tempers are high.
Back in a relaxed voiceover, Hammond updates us on the Stig: He had now covered 220 miles and was making good time. The only blessing was his small fuel tank. After a shot of Stig filling up, Clarkson: I think he’s stopped for fuel. Hammond: Has the Stig ever stopped for fuel before? Clarkson wonders how he’ll pay for it. Well, with a white “Bank of Money” card for The Stig, that’s how. Clerk at the checkout counter: Have you a Nectar card? Stig: observes clerk in silence.
May: While the Stig was powering through the Lake district, Jeremy was attaching the steering wheel. (With a hammer.) Clarkson spins it, but the front wheels don’t move: Broken. May, in voiceover: Then he had is second go at fitting the seats. Clarkson, ratcheting away: Bored. Bored. Bored. In the background, Hammond is trying to open a plastic packet, succeeding when he uses his teeth. Clarkson: dull, tedious. Back ache. Arm ache. Hammond manages to rip a big hole in the plastic. Clarkson: Cramp. Miserable. Hate. James. May ignores him. Then for some reason, he proclaims that it’s finished. It wasn’t. May: Jeremy, before you go any farther, may I make a point? Hammond looks jaded. May: You have to mount the harness first before you put the seats in. (And he’s just saying this *now*?) Clarkson: You’re joking. Sadly, he’s not, and Clarkson throws himself a little pity party, saying that everything he does is rubbage. May tries to set him straight: You don’t think anything through. You just get ahold of it and think that goes through there but if you just thought about it–Clarkson continues his woe: This is the worst day of my life. Ever. Hammond ignores them both.
Clarkson in voiceover: The Stig hit Scotland. He was now just 100 miles away, and we still had to do the brakes, the bodywork, and the electrics. Thank God Richard and I had taken some shortcuts. Cut to Clarkson holding out a handful of washers and bolts to Hammond, who laughs, quietly and delightedly. He explains: I’m saving time by not putting the washers and bolts in. Hammond (quietly but laughing): These are all really important stuff! Clarkson (nodding and unconcerned) I know, I know. He tucks them into a pocket, then adds, James would flip if he knew. As May is rooting through a toolbox, in voiceover, Clarkson tells us that predictably James was too anal to notice. Clarkson points to May and declaims that all he’s done that morning is to file. He takes stuff out, puts it back, and files it where it’s supposed to be. (Shrieks): James!!! Stop filing! May: I’m looking for the sodding socket thing (obviously a technical term) that YOU need to take that out. Do you know where it is? Do you know what it looks like? Clarkson: No!
We cut to the Stig at a filling station. Hammond, in voice over: With the Stig pitting for his final splash and dash, we had to start bleeding the brakes, which it turns out, is a minefield of double entendres. Clarkson (intently): The nipple is off. The tube is in the hole. I will be needing some pump. May: You should feel it go stiff now. Clarkson (to Hammond at the brakes): Pump, man, pump. Hammond crosses his eyes and looks silly. Clarkson: Braking happening. Hammond (wiggling in seat): Oh yeah, that’s much better, yeah, that’s hard.
As they cluster around the car, Clarkson tells us that the Stig has left the motorway and was bearing down on them. He points at the car and proclaims: A light! It breathes, it lives! Hammond: We’ve got minutes. Clarkson fuels the car, Hammond attaches the gear knob, and May competently connects wires. Clarkson presses a button, and to the shock and awe of pretty much everyone, it starts. He raises his arms in victory, announces that it lives, but it doesn’t. The engine cuts out. Clarkson: It’s dead.
With the Stig just five miles away, the chance for victory is growing slim. Clarkson cranks the engine. No joy. May counsels him to leave it a minute….the car whisperer says “Now” and Clarkson gets it started. Then it dies again.
Cut to Clarkson madly chucking tools out of the car left and right. Hammond hustles over with the hood. May: Who’s driving? After assuring Clarkson that Rock, Paper, Scissors works with three people and that they exhibit their selections after the count of three, Hammond and May end up with rocks, and Clarkson with paper, so Clarkson drives. He gets in the little 7, cranks the engine, and zigzags out the bay. May runs after, telling Hammond to come on. Hammond says oh, God, and walks along behind. All they’ve got to do is jolt across the starting line. The steering does seem a little wild; did Clarkson get the steering wheel on right? He stops just shy of the line. Hammond counts down, and May waves a flag to get him going. Clarkson jerks across the line and the presenters go wild.
How did they win? Well…there’s a cut to Stig, on the side of the road, one police officer to a side. The first cop says to the Stig in a nice Scottish accent: Does this car belong to you, sir? Stig:(Silent). Cop #1: Can I ask where you’re going to? Can I ask where you’ve come from? No reply. Clarkson (at the track): He was three miles away ten minutes ago. Cop #2: Is the car stolen, sir? The first cop steps back to check the plate number. Stig is still silent. Hammond: I would have thought, even with traffic or trouble getting in…
Clarkson: The Stig reserved the right to remain silent. The cop car rolls away with the Stig in back, leaving the Caterham abandoned on the roadside.
And on that bombshell, it’s time to end. Good night!
