Top Gear, episode 2, review: electric cars, electric shocks, electrifying fun
The new-look Top Gear (BBC Two) made a petrolhead-baiting statement by dedicating its second episode to electric cars. “We’re officially on-trend, which is a strange feeling,” said co-host Chris Harris self-deprecatingly.
One shudders to imagine what Jeremy Clarkson and co would have made of such tree-hugging tosh. They would certainly have ranted about Guardian-reading, muesli-munching, humous-dipping liberals. They might even have driven these so-called cars off a cliff or into a breaker’s yard, while the studio audience egged them on. And on that bombshell, let the planet burn!
There was no such scoffing here; just a tacit acknowledgement that the world had moved on. It was another highly entertaining episode that augurs well for the motoring show’s latest incarnation.
After last week’s getting-to-know-you Ethiopian holiday, the presenting trio crashed back down to earth in the glamorous environs of Telford and Tamworth. Each tackled the task of constructing an electric sports car on a budget. Harris built a battery-powered Triumph Spitfire, donning a suitably Seventies red poloneck and stringback gloves to drive it. “Why have you come dressed as Spiderman’s grandad?” enquired Paddy McGuinness.
McGuinness pimped out a Nissan Leaf, complete with scissor doors that he couldn’t close properly. “You’re 45 years old, man,” scoffed Freddie Flintoff. His own attempt was a cut-and-shut job: Subaru Brat on top, Tesla underneath. “You’re driving a spork,” said McGuinness.
The trio, as ever, undertook various challenges, including the highlight of this episode: the electric-shock handling test. Steering around a tight track, they got electrocuted if they touched the sides, like the classic Buzz Wire fairground game.
McGuinness kept screeching in pain and whimpered: “I think I might’ve weed myself.” Flintoff seemed curiously immune, which led the others to suspect that he was either cheating or a freak of nature. Harris came last, and for a forfeit he had to drink a glass of milk while being given electric shocks. Presumably the licence fee-payers will pick up the laundry bill.
McGuinness’s car kept running out of battery, so he had to knock on doors until he found a friendly family who would let him charge it from their mains. He duly made himself at home in Sheila’s caravan, scoffing all her biscuits and chatting away like old pals.
Finally came an urban electric endurance race: “The 24 Minutes of Le Mansfield”, as it was dubbed. Just like the 24 Hours of Le Mans, but shorter, and in Mansfield. While Harris’s car emitted worrying noises and McGuinness ran out of battery yet again, Flintoff ram-raided some market stalls.
Back at base, Harris took the Tesla Model 3 for a spin, first at night through a stunningly-lit central London, then around the test track. He found that it lived up to the copious boasts of Tesla boss Elon Musk, calling it “a traffic-light king, an AK-47 disguised as a butter knife”.
Flintoff was less complimentary, snorting that Elon Musk “sounds like something my mum used to buy off the Avon lady”. Once again, The Stig was mentioned in passing but didn’t appear, which felt like a conscious attempt to distance this series from the past.
There were no celebrity guests in last week’s opener. Here we had Danny Boyle and Himesh Patel, director and star of new comic film Yesterday. They were both thoroughly charming, if a little dull. Mild excitement came when Boyle sped off the track across the grass (“Full code brown!” snickered Harris) and smashed through a barrier at 70mph. Flintoff was so distracted, he walked head-first into his co-host. “He’s stuck the nut on Harris!” cried McGuinness delightedly.
During the Chris Evans and Matt LeBlanc eras, you had the impression that after a day’s filming, the presenters would disappear to their hotel rooms to call their wives, agents and therapists. You could imagine this trio sticking around for a few pints. If a lackey neglected to lay on a steak dinner, no punches would be thrown. They’d shrug, ruffle his hair and go for a curry instead.
Their schoolboyish teasing and horseplay had a warm camaraderie. They frequently made each other dissolve into helpless giggles, and are already falling into roles. Flintoff and McGuinness are the two amigos with a fierce rivalry. Harris never wins, which vexes him greatly. He sneers at the other two’s Lancastrian accents and Flintoff’s IQ. They ridicule him for being short and fat, even though he’s not particularly either.
There was less dodgy denim and leather, more tailored T-shirts and skinny black jeans from Jacamo. McGuinness felt comfortable enough to poke fun at his own thinning locks. “Sometimes when it rains on camera it can make your hair look a bit thin,” he explained. “Just an optical illusion, lads.”
The only woman spotted here was an audience member who was roundly ridiculed at the very start of the show. This series hasn’t suddenly become a touchy-feely snowflake-fest; instead, once again, it’s just a jolly way to spend a Sunday night hour. Top Gear has got its groove back.
