Tonight, James May faces trial by water, Richard Hammond faces trial by fire.
Hello and good evening, thanks very much.
Porsche used to be the only supercar you could drive every day. Clarkson: But now there’s a new kid on the block. Hammond: No, there isn’t. Clarkson continues: Audis are mainly built for German cement salesmen. Not this one, though. (We get some lovely car porn shots.) This is the R8. It’s made from a blend of carbon fiber, magnesium, and aluminum. It has two seats, the engine’s in the middle, and it’s about as high off the ground as a badger’s badger. By any measure, it is a full-on supercar, but so far as I can tell, it doesn’t have any of the usual supercar drawbacks. It is a sleek and lovely thing; the interior’s leather and there’s a right-hand drive. The side mirrors are unobtrusive, the headlights are long and elegant. There is a streak of brushed aluminum widening up the edge of the door.
The improvements include being able to see out, it has the same 4.2 L V8 engine as the Audi RS4, so it’s better on fuel than a regular supercar, which apparently runs on minced lions. It’s very quiet, has ample headroom, comfortable, and costs 77 000 pounds. However most of the good stuff on the car is an optional extra. Also in the negative column, Clarkson doesn’t think it’s particularly good looking (he’s nuts, obviously) and shoots down the little LEDs under the headlights. I’m with him there–they look a bit stupid.
The aesthetics are thrown aside when you start to drive, though: 0-60 in 4.6 seconds, top speeed of 190-ish. The speed is not the most impressive thing about the car; the cornering’s the real story. It’s very impressive through corners; the grip is fantastic. Clarkson compares it to smearing honey into Keira Knightly. It does have 4 wheel drive, but since no more than a third of the power goes up onto the front, there’s very rarely any understeer. When there is, it’s remarkably easy to bring it back into control. Clarkson is completely sold, finding it almost without fault and absolutely stunning.
Hammond: Rubbish. He drifts onto the track behind Clarkson in his signature car, a Porsche, grimly determined to defend its honor. This is a Carrera 2S, which costs about the same as the Audi, and Hammond “will now run four rings round it.”
They do a chase around the track, trashing each others’ ride. Hammond does not pass the Audi; the flat 6 isn’t up to the challenge on the straights. It ends when he comes out of a corner backwards; one can’t help but feel this deflates his claim a bit. Clarkson pulls off as well and they have an argument. He makes the losers’ L on his forehead; Hammond protests that it’s not just about the results but also the sensation along the way. They deride the placement of the engines in the cars, but nothing is settled, so they decide to settle the matter intelligently and have a half mile drag. Hammond is confident-ish and gets off to a fast start but Clarkson catches up fairly quickly. The finish is too close to call; neither knows who won.
In the studio, slo-mo reveals that Hammond won by half a car length. It’s not too impressive a win since he got off to a much better start. Hammond is delighted anyway. Clarkson promises a comeuppance: a V10 is in the works. Hammond’s not worried; he shows us a picture of a cloud of smoke, presumably with the prototype car inside. Clarkson insists that it’s just steam. No, it isn’t–the next photo shows a burned-out hulk covered in foam sitting forlornly off the track. Hammond pushes for a general election by the audience to prove which car is best; Clarkson reminds him that the Audi is incredibly popular, so Hammond rethinks his position and backs down, announcing that he’s nicking all Clarkson’s best ideas as well.
“Some say that he’s banned from the town of Chichester and that in a recent late-night deal, he bought a slightly dented white Fiat Uno from the Duke of Edinburgh. All we know is he’s called the Stig.” The Stig sets off on a slightly damp track, listening to a self-help tape. There’s no understeer in the corners; it looks just delicious. By contrast, when the Stig ran the Porsche he spun out on the corner before Gambon. Given another try, he achieved 1:26:2; the Audi whipped around in 1:24:4. Hammond has to admit it is a better car, and Clarkson does a victory dance.
The lads stand in the studio, puffing on pipes and reflecting that their last outing in amphibious cars wasn’t terribly successful, which is par for the course on Top Gear. Things are always breaking in half, on fire, or sunk. May explains that usually at this point, they give up and move on, but the producers felt they hadn’t taken the whole amphicar thing seriously and decided they had to concentrate, refine their designs, and meet up outside London on the M24. Clarkson and Hammond wince. Clarkson: M25. No wonder May’s always lost.
Clarkson, as is his habit, shows up first at the rendezvous in a white pickup and exits through the sunroof. Hammond is second to arrive, in a ghastly blue van-boat. It’s even bigger than his first effort, incredibly. He shows Clarkson the flying bridge with a place for bikini-clad girls. A problem is immediately evident; he can’t really see over the roof to steer. As before, he’s attached a propeller to the VW, and installed a fiberglass hull, well sealed with foam. It’s a mere 5 tons and the cooling is about the same. Clarkson’s entry has thoroughly welded-up doors, two drums attached to the bed that can be lowered to add stability, evidence of a fire on the paint from a welding mishap, and two big fishing poles for leisure moments. At this point, May arrives in a Herald sailboat with the improvements of a collapsible mast, a spinnaker, and a keel to drop down through the floor of the car. Clarkson and Hammond confidently predict sinking, but May is adamant that physics are on his side for once.
Time to unveil the challenge. Clarkson blanches. May: Is it bad? Clarkson: Yes. You will now drive to Dover. May: No. Clarkson: And then you will cross the Channel to France. It’s a distance of 22 miles, which seriously concerns the lads. Clarkson: Mine won’t do that. Hammond: If I’d known it was the sea, I’d have fitted a bigger anchor.
Clarkson has a bit of a fit: We’re all going to be killed. I’m 47 years old and I’m going to be run down by a Korean grain carrier, minced–Hammond interrupts: Yeah, but what a day.
While the other two relax, May goes about collapsing the mast so they can get going. He hits a streetlight with it and gets it tangled up in the security camera. Finally, though, they’re underway for their next great adventure.
The additions he’s made have taken the edge off the Nissank’s performance; Clarkson’s efforts to urge it along by bouncing back and forth have no effect. He’s going to do his last will and testament, leaving everything to the lifeboat crews. Hammond is not markedly more upbeat: I can’t believe they’re asking us to go across the Channel. He has trouble shifting. May has fallen behind the other two as is his wont, but thinks that this is fantastic: I absolutely cannot wait to try out my Triumph Herald with its new rerigging and sail across the Channel. Why shouldn’t it work?
Hammond, sensing disaster, has only one small crumb of comfort: this time it’s working on the road. Not for long, though; the compartment fills with smoke and he pulls off the road to emerge, gasping and choking, from the back. Clarkson drives up and pulls off too with the same problem: Hammond is being killed and it’s hard to tell…is that smoke or–? The foam that they’ve packed the engine bays with has caught fire. Clarkson: How’s your engine? Hammond replies promptly: Ruined. Clarkson laughs: Everything we do–James, where is he? He’s not even here. May has ceased his earlier singing, pulled over, and sits in his car with smoke swirling around him, looking troubled. Hoping that the heat from the exhaust will burn off foam without a consuming fire, they power on. May is clutching a fire extinguisher, just in case.
Clarkson: Oh, God, look at them–they are worse than they were last time on the road, and we have a much bigger challenge on the water. Mind you, after five miles, Hammond was beyond caring. We’re shown the VW’s smoke filled interior, with the biggest, goofiest grin on Hammond’s face. Clarkson: It is like the West Indian Dope-Smoking Team practicing in the car.
The foam does burn off, they do arrive in Dover without significant mishap. Hammond, possibly still in an altered state: People are looking. One day they’re going to want one. Theyr’e launching from the slipway once used by the giant channel-crossing hovercrafts in Dover Harbor. Then it’ll be 22 miles on the busiest shipping lane in the world. By the time they reach the slipway, the Nissank’s brakes are gone, and Clarkson amuses himself by running into the back of May’s Triumph. Once everybody’s managed to stop, they get out and look out across the Channel. It’s late and the tide is coming in. May proposes leaving when the tide goes out, which is the next day at 1 pm. Clarkson: we shall go then, we shall go to the pub now. Hammond: Sound idea. Clarkson: Tomorrow, one o’clock, that’ll be us, slack water! Hammond: Cause the water’s slack. (pause) What’s slack water?
In the studio, Clarkson: Honestly, crossing the Channel has got to be just about the stupidest idea ever. It was just one of those days when you have that sense I’m going to end up today with hypothermia, attached to a stomach pump. (Sure, who hasn’t had one of those days?) Hammond: We were also paranoid about sinking; that’s why we put all that foam everywhere…round anywhere really hot, basically.
Clarkson: My guest tonight was once suspended from Channel 4 for using the f word on live television before the watershed. He looks at his watch: I mean, for fuck’s sake! Ladies and gentlemen–Jools Holland!
The wonderful Jools Holland emerges from the crowd and gives Clarkson a hug. He’s the about as tall as Hammond, but his attitudes are much more similar to James May–separated at birth? Holland: What a lovely fellow he is. Once Holland met the Ramones at an after-show party in New York at KZ’s, a rather debauched, orgy-style place. He was talking to one of the Ramones, who, he was surprised to see, had a woman “performing an act upon his person. Do you know, he rather lost interest in what I was saying!” He chooses a car based on how it smells, and is a member of several classic car clubs. On his first lap, he drives off the track, no brakes, gets back on. On his lap, he’s off to a good start, but has trouble with the third gear, just like pretty much everybody. He’s good through Hammerhead, the flat, and Gambon, and finishes in 1:49:9.
In the studio, May recaps and takes us back to Dover to rejoin the challenge.
It is a lovely morning; the harbor is calm and inviting, but the open sea less so. “Captain Cocksure” is raring to go, but Clarkson and Hammond are having a last cup of tea before facing anhiliation. Clarkson: Have you ever considered the meaning of life? Hammond: No, but I — I think we should. Clarkson: Now’s the time. May is shipshape and impatiently awating his copresenters. Clarkson: how many grains of sugar are there? Hammond: That’s exactly what I…we say blithely “I’ll have one sugar” but how many are there? They count. Hammond loses track and must begin again, as he wants to get it right. Finally they arrive at the slipway. May blisters them: You’re two and three-quarters of an hour late. Hammond: Stuff to do. Clarkson mutters about slack waters: Listen, before we set off…I have a few more things to do. The night previous, while a bit drunk, he’d glued trashcan lids to the tops of the drums to act as hydrofoils and wanted to make sure the glue cured before testing the water.
May writes them off and rolls down the ramp into the water. He climbs into the back seat, identifying the parts of the sailing mechanisms as he tends to do. The tide washes him back to shore; the centerboard is stuck. Clarkson and Hammond, dry and on shore, enjoy his predicament. May is so focused that he doesn’t realize he’s drifting into a pier. A minute and a half into the thrill ride, a rescue boat darts out and tows him back to open water. His Archimedes calculations aren’t holding water. (hee hee! Couldn’t resist.) Clarkson mildly observes: I would say that car is sinking, as well. May: Mayday! Clarkson and Hammond scramble into action and get their cars out on the water. Hammond is floating and is overjoyed by the success. The crowd of fans on the pier applaud. The sailcar goes down. Hammond can’t stop the engine on his colossus and so can’t rescue the sole survivor of the Triumph calamity. May: Oh, bloody hell. Clarkson motors over: Do you want to come on this boat? May: Up to a point, yes. Clarkson: Will you admit it’s a brilliant piece of design? May: No. Bugger off. Clarkson does. He and Hammond wait on land as May’s car is raised in order to offer reassurance and sympathy. Clarkson: You designed a rubbish car and know nothing about sailing. Hammond: Amazingly, however, James insisted that his Herald and the snapped mast could be fixed. And so with help from me and Jeremy (footage shows them napping in the sun) two hours later he was back in business.
The next we see, the three amphicars roll into the harbor together. Hammond: This is absolutely brilliant! May: I’m actually using my weight to counter the roll of the craft. He’s about three meters into the water. As he’s puttering onboard, he gets hit in the head with the boom. Clarkson to Hammond: Is that your top speed? Hammond: I’m flat out. He laughs. They leave May behind and went onto open water. Clarkson, uneasily: That’s choppy out there. Hammond is appalled: I can’t do that. Not in a van. Mate–it’s horrible! Clarkson: Maybe if we sneak up on it… Meanwhile back with Captain Pugwash: Sod it! He’s drifting along shore and has been smacked in the head again. These are not sound craft.
Clarkson: You can’t see what’s coming and I can! Hammond: I can just see sky, sea, sky, sea… The swells are alarmingly large. Hammond: Quite scared now, quite scared! Quite really scared! Back at shore, May: Why the bloody hell won’t it turn round? The boom smacks him again. Hammond turns tail and heads back to the harbor; Clarkson follows. May is still stuck on the seawall. Fans hold up a sign, “Go Captain Slow.” May: Ow!
Clarkson observes and motors over: Have you ever heard of the milk of human kindness? Well, prepare to suckle on it. He tows May away to the cheers of the crowd. Near the mouth of the harbor, Hammond discovers that the rough sea has damaged his van; the steering is broken and he’s stuck going around in circles. A huge hovercraft enters the harbor, blaring its horn. May is also in trouble again: Clarkson nudges the sailboat backwards. As Hamond tries desperately to escape circling, May’s mast collapses. The three craft avoid being mowed down by the hovercraft, but the water fuzz arrive. May tries to fob them off by saying everything’s fine, but it plainly isn’t. The harbor patrol order them back to land, but getting there isn’t easy. Hammond’s engine is dying and he’s brought back in by Clarkson; May is towed back as well. Hammond: James’ boat was now beyond repair. But luckily, Jeremy was on hand to comfort him. Clarkson: You failed!
The next day, the van and truck ease into the water. The sea is calmer, and Hammond bought an outboard motor from Clarkson for a million pounds. It’s not too robust, but it does propel him and May forward through the sea; May is on board as a cabin boy. As Hammond sends him forward for some refreshment, Clarkson leaves them behind. Hammond looks inside: Bloody hell! May! There’s quite a lot of water…! May: Oh, not again.
The van goes down; bits and pieces float on the water with Hammond and May. May grouses: This is the third time I’ve been in this ruddy sea. Hammond: Yeah…technically, it wasn’t my fault. May: With typical good grace, Jeremy picked us up and then announced we’d have to go back to Dover.
The reason? Richard Branson set the record from crossing the Channel in an amphibious car in an hour, forty minutes, six seconds. Ambitiously, Clarkson sets out to beat the time. Next stop, Calais.
Hammond: Where’s France? May: We follow a ferry. But not one going to Holland. They’re two miles out, and are attempting to determine how fast they’re going by tying knots into a rope and measuring how many knots go out per unit of time (one knot = one nautical mile per hour = 1.15 survey miles.) May is in charge and calculates a rate of 110 knots, or 125 mph.
A coast guard plane adds to the adventure by buzzing them and asking them their intentions. Hammond yells in fright. Clarkson relays their plan and they are wished good luck. He wants the pilot’s job, saying it’s the coolest. I believe he just wants a job out of the sea in a truck-boat. But look! France is ahead! Hammond points out that England is still closer.
New peril: they’re in the shipping lanes. Clarkson can’t remember who has the right of way (hint–as a practical matter, the biggest thing gets to go first.) Hammond: Ooh God, no! Clarkson: Maybe I should go behind it? They find that they have not broken the Channel crossing record, but are at least in one piece.
The sea gets choppy. Clarkson: We’re going down, boys! Hammond and May bail furiously with cups. May is sent forward to act as ballast. As he’s clinging to the windshield: I’m getting a bit bored with sinking, frankly. The water calms as they get closer to shore. The French on the beach point as they close in. Clarkson: The town of Sangatte was about to get three more immigrants. Never mind that we’d aimed for Calais and missed; France is France.
The breakers are defeating their attempts to drive up onto the beach. Hammond falls out of the truck bed and hops up on shore. The truck is stuck near the beach but unable to get up the slip. May gets a rope tied to the front of the truck and Clarkson goes for broke. Hammond and some curious French tow them onto shore. Success! Clarkson: The pickup had landed: merci bien!
