Jimminy Clarkson.

I must confess to rather liking Jeremy Clarkson. Or more accurately, as I’ve never met the man, to finding his television persona engaging. And all this despite my being a bearded, Guardian-reading socialist: the embodiment of all that Clarkson despises. Like Ken Clarke, Boris Johnson and the late Alan Clark he seems authentic - the opinions may be outrageous, but they’re his, and delivered with a bonhomie and self-irony which charms the listener. Although much of Top Gear is tediously repetitive, and filled with nerdish details which make train-spotting or cricket seem like fun, the interaction between Clarkson and the Hamster and Captain Slow is usually entertaining. But until yesterday I’d always been puzzled by the team’s ability to experience an orgasm whilst sitting in the front seat of a car, alone, and with both hands on the steering-wheel.

   To explain. Yesterday I took the car for its 100,005 km service. Our garage is on the coast, a good hour’s drive away and this being Italy, even minor services take hours. In the summer that’s not a problem: after a coffee and croissant in the nearest bar I buy a paper and wander down to the front to read it. This is followed by a leisurely lunch in a fish restaurant by which time Arnaldo rings my mobile to tell me the car is ready. Winter is different: there is nothing to do in Porto Sant’Elpidio apart from walking for miles along the Adriatica to the shopping centre, and even that’s out of the question when it’s raining. Accordingly my heart sank when Arnaldo explained that our Forester wouldn’t be ready until the evening. I therefore tentatively asked if it would be possible to borrow a car. Unlike England, courtesy cars are a rarity in Italy. In Norfolk our Subaru dealer delighted in lending Pat the latest model, in the hope no doubt of tempting her to buy it. Sometimes he was successful. To my surprise and delight Arnaldo rummaged through a pile of keys, took me outside and said, ‘The white one.’ The car was old and the radio didn’t work - but it was an Imprezza! And what a world of difference from a Forester. Taut handling, acceleration which pinned you to the back of the seat, and aaargh that throaty roar. And as I creamed my jeans, not having been so exhilarated since I traded in my Kawasaki half a lifetime ago, I suddenly saw the light. For a second I too became a believer in the four-wheeled gods of Jeremy Clarkson.