A few months ago I fell in love with Top Gear, which is notable for being the first time, ever, I have been a fan of a show which is actually mainstream and popular. Top Gear has a massive and very active fanbase, including a forum with an excellent demotivators thread which runs to several hundred pages. It's also the most prolific producers of fiction of any fandom I've been involved with since the Doctor Who community of the early '90s.
A lot of the fic is, to put it gently, a bit weird. I fit right in.
Disclaimer: Top Gear belongs to the BBC (mostly) and Jeremy, Richard and James belong to themselves. I own nothing but a fevered imagination, but the bits that ARE mine are yours under the Creative Commons share alike licence.
Mere 'happy' turned to 'mischievous' when he saw Jeremy's ridiculous GT in the car park. So, he'd managed to get the useless thing all the way down from Man without it breaking down, running out of fuel, getting stuck on a narrow bridge or reporting itself stolen. First time for everything.
Richard parked neatly beside Jeremy's car. Not so close that he couldn't get his own door open easily but close enough that getting into the GT, with its idiotic lidded doors, would mean crawling along the ground.v He'd like to see that. vWith a spring in his step and a smile on his lips, he walked through the portacabin door and collided with James, wearing yesterday's jumper and the air of a man at the end of his tether.
"Morning Hammond. Don't park there - that thing will infect your car with wretchedness." James stormed off towards the workshop. vRichard watched him go, bewildered.
"What was all that about?" Richard watched Jeremy tipping far too much sugar into his coffee.
"I parked beside James' silly little Panda yesterday, and now it won't start. He's been tooling around with it all night, and can't find the problem." Jeremy glanced around, then leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper.
"I think he seriously blames the Ford. He's losing it, Hammond."
Richard was about to reply when there was an almighty crash from outside.
"Oliver!"
Oliver had moved. Skid marks across the pale cement of the car park showed where he - it, Richard corrected himself - had been pushed sideways until he - it - was jammed between the high chain link fence and the back wall of the workshop, radiator pressed against the fence as if pining for freedom. The GT was parked against it, back bumpers touching, pinning the smaller car in place.
Richard collided with a colleague for the second time in five minutes, as Jeremy barreled through the door at full volume while he was still rooted to the spot, trying to work out what was happening.
"May? May! What the fuck is going on here, man?"
James was watching from the workshop door, with an odd, stunned look on his face.
"That... thing..." James pointed shakily at the GT, "...should be kept on a lead, Clarkson."
Six months later
"Sweeeet!"
"Don't say 'sweet', Clarkson. It's not sweet. It's the devil's work."
They were standing in the doorway of James' garage. The usual random assortment of wellies, old paint tins and gutted motorcycles had been swept up and piled into the corners of the room, as though a small, highly localised hurricane had torn through. The Panda was parked on an odd angle, jammed half-sideways in the narrow space. There were tyre marks on the floor and scratches down the little black car's panels, as though it had been thrown around.
"Don't care. It's sweeeeet."
Disclaimer: Top Gear belongs to the BBC (mostly) and Jeremy, Richard and James belong to themselves. I own nothing but a fevered imagination, but the bits that ARE mine are yours under the Creative Commons share alike licence.
The fresh spring air was crisp, the sun was out, the roads were nearly deserted and Oliver's restored engine was running like a dream. Richard was a happy man.
Mere 'happy' turned to 'mischievous' when he saw Jeremy's ridiculous GT in the car park. So, he'd managed to get the useless thing all the way down from Man without it breaking down, running out of fuel, getting stuck on a narrow bridge or reporting itself stolen. First time for everything.
Richard parked neatly beside Jeremy's car. Not so close that he couldn't get his own door open easily but close enough that getting into the GT, with its idiotic lidded doors, would mean crawling along the ground.v He'd like to see that. vWith a spring in his step and a smile on his lips, he walked through the portacabin door and collided with James, wearing yesterday's jumper and the air of a man at the end of his tether.
"Morning Hammond. Don't park there - that thing will infect your car with wretchedness." James stormed off towards the workshop. vRichard watched him go, bewildered.
"What was all that about?" Richard watched Jeremy tipping far too much sugar into his coffee.
"I parked beside James' silly little Panda yesterday, and now it won't start. He's been tooling around with it all night, and can't find the problem." Jeremy glanced around, then leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper.
"I think he seriously blames the Ford. He's losing it, Hammond."
Richard was about to reply when there was an almighty crash from outside.
"Oliver!"
Oliver had moved. Skid marks across the pale cement of the car park showed where he - it, Richard corrected himself - had been pushed sideways until he - it - was jammed between the high chain link fence and the back wall of the workshop, radiator pressed against the fence as if pining for freedom. The GT was parked against it, back bumpers touching, pinning the smaller car in place.
Richard collided with a colleague for the second time in five minutes, as Jeremy barreled through the door at full volume while he was still rooted to the spot, trying to work out what was happening.
"May? May! What the fuck is going on here, man?"
James was watching from the workshop door, with an odd, stunned look on his face.
"That... thing..." James pointed shakily at the GT, "...should be kept on a lead, Clarkson."
Six months later
"Sweeeet!"
"Don't say 'sweet', Clarkson. It's not sweet. It's the devil's work."
They were standing in the doorway of James' garage. The usual random assortment of wellies, old paint tins and gutted motorcycles had been swept up and piled into the corners of the room, as though a small, highly localised hurricane had torn through. The Panda was parked on an odd angle, jammed half-sideways in the narrow space. There were tyre marks on the floor and scratches down the little black car's panels, as though it had been thrown around.
As though it had been thrashing around.
Jeremy looked back at the four little pedalcars milling around the Panda's wheels, mottled blue and black and one with a little white Ford racing stripe.
Jeremy looked back at the four little pedalcars milling around the Panda's wheels, mottled blue and black and one with a little white Ford racing stripe.
"Don't care. It's sweeeeet."
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