The Truth about Goats
Much to the surprise of astronomers and mystic shaman the sun continued to rise and the Earth spun on its axis, despite the fears surrounding the re-boot of the ‘Top Gear’ franchise. Apocalyptic predictions and media hype were confounded, as the same brand of laddish codswallop was streamed to our homes in an anti-climax on par with Windows Vista, the ‘Big Society’ or the last series of ‘Lost’.
While absent from our screens, Top Gear had taken on a mythic quality; imbued with the power to make nastiness charming, global warming a fiction and Richard Hammond hip ‘by comparison’. One devoted fan complained: ‘It wasn’t anywhere near as racist as the original, although come to think of it neither was the original – I just remember it that way…a bit like the 1950s’.
A reviewer wrote: ‘It’s cars and blokes. Blokey cars. Car-ish blokes. It’s…oh my God, who gives a sh@t! Is this my life? Is this seriously my life? I used to have hopes – dreams – a vague interest in light Opera. I can’t bear it – the contrived Clarkson/Evans debate – it’s eating my soul. Sarah? I want to come home. I want to see the kids. Can you forgive me?’
Waves of apathy greeted the new hosts, as predictably the show plodded on with its derivative blend of car-porn and ambivalence to Health & Safety protocol. One BBC executive said: ‘We’d asked Mr. Evans to tone done the contraversial elements – the violence, the banter, the dragons…no hold on…that’s Game of Thrones. Top Gear? No, that’s about as edgy as blancmange…and just as white’.