First and foremost, let me put it out there right now that my Dad said I should audition for Top Gear, and if that isn’t good enough for the so called BBC, then I don’t know what on God’s green is.

Now, if you’re reading this post while living life in the United States (which is in America) and you don’t know who the eff Chris Evans is, and you certainly wouldn’t trust him, even for a cotton pickin’ minute with one of your favourite imports, then, boys and girls, allow me to make a case.

First, and of course, most importantly, he’s a dyed-in-the-wool car man, petrol head, piston head, gas junky, or gear head (delete as applicable). His car collection is large, varied (i.e, he has quite a lot of different Ferrari’s) and well maintained. Here he is lending a Ferrari Cali to a slightly nervous James May from not so long ago, and here is some shaky footage of some of that collection leaving his not inconsiderable country pile.

Second, he’s got form. Years ago when I was a teenager, before I had (no) status and before I had a(n) (iPhone) pager, he hosted a show called TFI Friday. Now, quite apart from it not being a slightly crap way to put food or beverages into your body it was a, shall we say, a Friday evening ‘variety’ show that went out almost live and was completely anarchic. Here’s a ‘best of’ youtube vid. It is long, and I implore you to give it a bit more than thirty seconds of your time, but if you care at all about the future direction of Top Gear UK then it *could* give you an insight into where our new man may take it. It should also be said that they wrote most of the show in the pub. And that, people, is all the approval I need.

Advertisement

Third, looking at the comments for any article posted in the UK about the BBC’s decision, and then going on to make that eternal mistake (this rather lovely site excepted) of looking at the comments reveals a boiling, seething mass of middle aged white men moaning about the politically correct mafia taking their jobs all in the name of not being horrible to people.

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.