Thank God for Dave
The confessions of Clarkson's secret bride | Melanie Reid - Times Online
Top Gear is simply about the survival of blokeishness in a feminised world. It's about prime-time gender revenge and anti-authoritarianism and male camaraderie It's about the inner schoolboy in every man; and a nostalgia for the kind of power that men aren't allowed any more. It's the story of the little guy, dominated by his wife, and told to slow down as he's driving the Astra to Asda, who watches Top Gear and whispers “Yes!” under his breath as the three comic musketeers proceed across the land, doing insanely silly things their mothers would never have let them do, and generally dissing girlieness, women's cars and political correctness.
Now captured by Dave - the name is a thesis in itself - Top Gear in its endless rerun form is now rather brilliantly defining the essence of mild, heroic, misogynistic, right-wing British blokeishness.
Note, too, that none of Top Gear's three presenters is female, or are ever likely to be so. Note the self-deprecating nature of the three; their endearing lack of pomposity, their ability to fall flat on their faces and laugh at themselves. This is classic arrested-development, blokey stuff; these are men whom every other man on the planet, with the possible exception of Martin Amis, would like to go to the pub with. And quite a lot of women would like to join them.
(Dave for those without UK freeview boxes is a new bloke's television station that just shows repeats of blokey shows, and with the crap on the other channels a safe refuge on a boring evening.)