Top Gear Silliness: The India Special
Jan. 19th, 2009 12:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trieduntureTitle: The India Special
Fandom: Top Gear
Pairing/Rating: Gen
Words: 1500
Disclaimer: This never happened. I never want it to happen. It would be awful if it actually happened (and wasn't caught on camera).
Summary: Unabashed silliness with the jungle, bandits, and Clarkson getting punched more than even he deserves.
<><><>
James May was using the weak blue light from his watch's face to see what he was doing as he cleaned underneath his fingernails. He had been doing this for at least twenty minutes. Richard Hammond paced the perimeter of their small, dark holding cell and finally snapped, 'Are clean fingernails really that important at a time like this?'
'I don't know. Shall we take a vote?' James turned to regard the unconscious Jeremy Clarkson, who was sprawled on the concrete floor beside him. 'It appears Jeremy abstains. The vote is tied, and since they're my bloody fingernails, I'll clean them if I want.'
Tempers often run high when you've been travelling with the same two mates for days and days, but getting captured by highway bandits probably wasn't helping matters.
Stop. Rewind. Go back several hours. Go back to the jungle catastrophe, and you'll get a better look.
It had been, by Top Gear standards, an uneventful day of setting up road shots to be used in the next special. The exotic locale of India, lush and colourful, was behaving nicely weather-wise. Unlike the car. The Maruti had been nothing but trouble. Or, more precisely, whoever had allowed Jeremy to drive the thing off-road had been nothing but trouble. With the suspension shot and the fuel tank ripped open on a particularly jagged rock, the three presenters were cramped in the car, all shouting at each other and the crew, when the bandits arrived.
'Surely they're not called bandits anymore,' James muttered when Richard labeled them as such in quite a loud shout. 'Aren't they called hijackers or something? Or is that just for planes? Oh, cock, they're coming this way.'
'Shut up,' Jeremy hissed out of the corner of his mouth as the AK-47-toting bandits came crashing through the woods. 'Everyone just stay calm. I'm sure the crew can handle this.'
The crew did. By tossing their equipment to the ground and taking off in their working Land Rovers. If the film from those cameras were ever found, a scene much like this one might unfold, all shot from a shoe's eye view:
The gang of ten gunman approached the beached Maruti, shouting in their native tongue and pulling three pasty Brits from the car. Jeremy said something ill-advised about their jungle upbringing, so he was immediately cold-cocked to the side of the head with the butt of a rifle. That brought him down more to ground-level. From somewhere off-camera, one could hear Richard sigh, 'At least we won't have to hear him go on about the directions again.'
Fast forward through the uncomfortable journey on foot while being forced to carry Jeremy between them, and James and Richard found themselves here. No idea where 'here' was, of course, but it was small and dark and slightly damp. Just a room in a compound in the middle of nowhere, with no working cell phones or radios.
James had a theory. 'I suppose they're going to hold us for ransom, yeah?'
'Ransom.' It was less of a question from Richard, and more of an incredulous statement. 'Does the BBC negotiate with terrorists?'
'Well, our ratings have been decent.' James shrugged.
'We need to figure a way out of here,' Richard said. He jiggled the immobile doorknob on the heavy steel door. 'Can you pick the lock?'
'I'm not a trained circus performer, Hammond.'
'Fine. Does Jeremy know how to pick locks?'
They both frowned down at said Jeremy.
'He might,' James ventured. 'It's just the sort of pikey thing he would know. How do you wake up someone who's been knocked out? We don't have any water to throw on him.'
'One of us could slap him.'
They looked at each other in the dim blue light from James' wristwatch. Little smiles crossed their faces. After a quick round of paper-scissors-rock, Richard was awarded the honour.
'No, not a little tap. You're going to have to hit him harder,' James advised as he held Jeremy's head still.
Richard glared from where he was bent over the unconscious man. 'I don't want to break his jaw or anything. He's already concussed, probably.'
'You couldn't break his jaw in a million years. Your hand would break first.'
'Well, I don't want that either!'
'Would you just slap him?'
'Fine!' Richard brought his hand back and brought it down on Jeremy's slack cheek with a loud crack.
Fast forward through what happens when an unconscious person is smacked awake. It involves a lot of knees in groins and accusations about the lineage of boys from Birmingham. Fast forward through the quick catch-up session James had to give Jeremy, though most of the answers were, 'Don't know. It's all gone fucked.'
'Look, Jezza, concentrate.' Richard snapped his fingers in front of Jeremy's face. 'Do you or do you not know how to pick a door lock?'
'A door lock?' Jeremy repeated, rubbing his smarting cheek.
'Yes, a lock,' James drew the word out, 'on a door.'
'No, I can't pick a stupid lock! I wasn't born and raised in the low dregs of society, scraping a living together from stealing car stereos, unlike some people from Birmingham!'
Fast forward through a pretty pathetic fistfight, which ended as soon as the contenders realised they couldn't see three inches in front of their noses to land a hit.
After all three had sprawled out on the concrete ground, panting to get their breath, Jeremy finally said, 'This wouldn't have happened if James could read a map.'
James offered a hand gesture in response, which was wasted in the dark.
Because there was nothing else to do, the three men examined their holding cell for any possible weakness. They found none. Solid concrete floor, solid cement block walls, solidly locked door.
James switched on his watch's blue light once more and held his wrist up towards the top of the wall. 'You know what?' he said conversationally. 'I think the roof is corrugated metal. I bet we could pry it loose with a little elbow grease.'
'How're we going to do that?' Jeremy asked from his seat on the floor, where he'd given up in defeat. 'The wall's seven feet high.'
'Hammond?' James turned to the smaller man. 'How much do you weigh?'
Fast forward to what it looks like for a middle-aged, unfit man to be lifting a short chap from Birmingham to sit on his shoulders.
'Fantastic, Jeremy. Keep it steady,' James cautioned from where he was standing behind them, trying to lend some balancing hands, like a weight-lifter's spotter.
'This. Is. Rubbish,' Jeremy puffed through the effort of keeping upright. Meanwhile, Richard was having a difficult time in reaching the place where the roof met the wall, even with Jeremy's added height.
'It's all bolted here. Maybe if we move a little bit to the left? It looks like there's a welding mark. Could be a weak point,' he said.
Jeremy slowly stepped sideways.
'No, your other left,' Richard snapped.
'Steady,' James warned, his voice going all high and worried.
'Have you got it?' Jeremy snapped back at Richard. 'I swear, you weigh as much as a hatchback.'
'Nearly...' Richard bit his lip as his fingers scrambled for purchase on the slick metal. He leaned a little bit more to get a better angle on it. Jeremy leaned a bit more, too. James gritted his teeth and braced himself.
Slow motion through what it looks like for three blokes to fall to the floor in a pile. It's rather brilliant, actually. A close-up of Richard's face in particular would be fantastic. After the noise had died down, James pushed at the two bodies that had landed more or less on top of him.
'If you don't get off of me in three seconds,' he said, 'I will make sure the hijackers kill you.'
It was looking pretty hopeless for our three heroes as they pulled themselves together and counted their scrapes and bruises. Spirits were low. Tensions were high. Jeremy was getting hungry and he wasn't ashamed to complain about it.
They might have all died there, in the middle of the jungle, waiting for the BBC to launch some sort of rescue expedition special, perhaps led by David Attenborough. But thankfully, the door creaked open, revealing a figure all outlined in bright sunlight.
Richard was the first to blink his eyes open against the glare. 'Is that--?'
'Stig!?' Jeremy cried. 'Oh, the Stig! Thank God you're here. How did you find us?'
The Stig merely waved the spanner in his hand, his gleaming helmet firmly in place. Fast forward through the walk through the compound of beaten-up bandits, all bearing what appeared to be spanner markings.
'That is just brilliant,' James said. The Stig shrugged in a self-deprecating way, and they piled into the Stig's modified Toyota pickup to head back to camp.
'Next time,' Jeremy muttered from where he was falling asleep against the backseat window, 'we'll shoot it on a soundstage.'
fin.
EDIT: Download the podfic here.
Fandom: Top Gear
Pairing/Rating: Gen
Words: 1500
Disclaimer: This never happened. I never want it to happen. It would be awful if it actually happened (and wasn't caught on camera).
Summary: Unabashed silliness with the jungle, bandits, and Clarkson getting punched more than even he deserves.
<><><>
James May was using the weak blue light from his watch's face to see what he was doing as he cleaned underneath his fingernails. He had been doing this for at least twenty minutes. Richard Hammond paced the perimeter of their small, dark holding cell and finally snapped, 'Are clean fingernails really that important at a time like this?'
'I don't know. Shall we take a vote?' James turned to regard the unconscious Jeremy Clarkson, who was sprawled on the concrete floor beside him. 'It appears Jeremy abstains. The vote is tied, and since they're my bloody fingernails, I'll clean them if I want.'
Tempers often run high when you've been travelling with the same two mates for days and days, but getting captured by highway bandits probably wasn't helping matters.
Stop. Rewind. Go back several hours. Go back to the jungle catastrophe, and you'll get a better look.
It had been, by Top Gear standards, an uneventful day of setting up road shots to be used in the next special. The exotic locale of India, lush and colourful, was behaving nicely weather-wise. Unlike the car. The Maruti had been nothing but trouble. Or, more precisely, whoever had allowed Jeremy to drive the thing off-road had been nothing but trouble. With the suspension shot and the fuel tank ripped open on a particularly jagged rock, the three presenters were cramped in the car, all shouting at each other and the crew, when the bandits arrived.
'Surely they're not called bandits anymore,' James muttered when Richard labeled them as such in quite a loud shout. 'Aren't they called hijackers or something? Or is that just for planes? Oh, cock, they're coming this way.'
'Shut up,' Jeremy hissed out of the corner of his mouth as the AK-47-toting bandits came crashing through the woods. 'Everyone just stay calm. I'm sure the crew can handle this.'
The crew did. By tossing their equipment to the ground and taking off in their working Land Rovers. If the film from those cameras were ever found, a scene much like this one might unfold, all shot from a shoe's eye view:
The gang of ten gunman approached the beached Maruti, shouting in their native tongue and pulling three pasty Brits from the car. Jeremy said something ill-advised about their jungle upbringing, so he was immediately cold-cocked to the side of the head with the butt of a rifle. That brought him down more to ground-level. From somewhere off-camera, one could hear Richard sigh, 'At least we won't have to hear him go on about the directions again.'
Fast forward through the uncomfortable journey on foot while being forced to carry Jeremy between them, and James and Richard found themselves here. No idea where 'here' was, of course, but it was small and dark and slightly damp. Just a room in a compound in the middle of nowhere, with no working cell phones or radios.
James had a theory. 'I suppose they're going to hold us for ransom, yeah?'
'Ransom.' It was less of a question from Richard, and more of an incredulous statement. 'Does the BBC negotiate with terrorists?'
'Well, our ratings have been decent.' James shrugged.
'We need to figure a way out of here,' Richard said. He jiggled the immobile doorknob on the heavy steel door. 'Can you pick the lock?'
'I'm not a trained circus performer, Hammond.'
'Fine. Does Jeremy know how to pick locks?'
They both frowned down at said Jeremy.
'He might,' James ventured. 'It's just the sort of pikey thing he would know. How do you wake up someone who's been knocked out? We don't have any water to throw on him.'
'One of us could slap him.'
They looked at each other in the dim blue light from James' wristwatch. Little smiles crossed their faces. After a quick round of paper-scissors-rock, Richard was awarded the honour.
'No, not a little tap. You're going to have to hit him harder,' James advised as he held Jeremy's head still.
Richard glared from where he was bent over the unconscious man. 'I don't want to break his jaw or anything. He's already concussed, probably.'
'You couldn't break his jaw in a million years. Your hand would break first.'
'Well, I don't want that either!'
'Would you just slap him?'
'Fine!' Richard brought his hand back and brought it down on Jeremy's slack cheek with a loud crack.
Fast forward through what happens when an unconscious person is smacked awake. It involves a lot of knees in groins and accusations about the lineage of boys from Birmingham. Fast forward through the quick catch-up session James had to give Jeremy, though most of the answers were, 'Don't know. It's all gone fucked.'
'Look, Jezza, concentrate.' Richard snapped his fingers in front of Jeremy's face. 'Do you or do you not know how to pick a door lock?'
'A door lock?' Jeremy repeated, rubbing his smarting cheek.
'Yes, a lock,' James drew the word out, 'on a door.'
'No, I can't pick a stupid lock! I wasn't born and raised in the low dregs of society, scraping a living together from stealing car stereos, unlike some people from Birmingham!'
Fast forward through a pretty pathetic fistfight, which ended as soon as the contenders realised they couldn't see three inches in front of their noses to land a hit.
After all three had sprawled out on the concrete ground, panting to get their breath, Jeremy finally said, 'This wouldn't have happened if James could read a map.'
James offered a hand gesture in response, which was wasted in the dark.
Because there was nothing else to do, the three men examined their holding cell for any possible weakness. They found none. Solid concrete floor, solid cement block walls, solidly locked door.
James switched on his watch's blue light once more and held his wrist up towards the top of the wall. 'You know what?' he said conversationally. 'I think the roof is corrugated metal. I bet we could pry it loose with a little elbow grease.'
'How're we going to do that?' Jeremy asked from his seat on the floor, where he'd given up in defeat. 'The wall's seven feet high.'
'Hammond?' James turned to the smaller man. 'How much do you weigh?'
Fast forward to what it looks like for a middle-aged, unfit man to be lifting a short chap from Birmingham to sit on his shoulders.
'Fantastic, Jeremy. Keep it steady,' James cautioned from where he was standing behind them, trying to lend some balancing hands, like a weight-lifter's spotter.
'This. Is. Rubbish,' Jeremy puffed through the effort of keeping upright. Meanwhile, Richard was having a difficult time in reaching the place where the roof met the wall, even with Jeremy's added height.
'It's all bolted here. Maybe if we move a little bit to the left? It looks like there's a welding mark. Could be a weak point,' he said.
Jeremy slowly stepped sideways.
'No, your other left,' Richard snapped.
'Steady,' James warned, his voice going all high and worried.
'Have you got it?' Jeremy snapped back at Richard. 'I swear, you weigh as much as a hatchback.'
'Nearly...' Richard bit his lip as his fingers scrambled for purchase on the slick metal. He leaned a little bit more to get a better angle on it. Jeremy leaned a bit more, too. James gritted his teeth and braced himself.
Slow motion through what it looks like for three blokes to fall to the floor in a pile. It's rather brilliant, actually. A close-up of Richard's face in particular would be fantastic. After the noise had died down, James pushed at the two bodies that had landed more or less on top of him.
'If you don't get off of me in three seconds,' he said, 'I will make sure the hijackers kill you.'
It was looking pretty hopeless for our three heroes as they pulled themselves together and counted their scrapes and bruises. Spirits were low. Tensions were high. Jeremy was getting hungry and he wasn't ashamed to complain about it.
They might have all died there, in the middle of the jungle, waiting for the BBC to launch some sort of rescue expedition special, perhaps led by David Attenborough. But thankfully, the door creaked open, revealing a figure all outlined in bright sunlight.
Richard was the first to blink his eyes open against the glare. 'Is that--?'
'Stig!?' Jeremy cried. 'Oh, the Stig! Thank God you're here. How did you find us?'
The Stig merely waved the spanner in his hand, his gleaming helmet firmly in place. Fast forward through the walk through the compound of beaten-up bandits, all bearing what appeared to be spanner markings.
'That is just brilliant,' James said. The Stig shrugged in a self-deprecating way, and they piled into the Stig's modified Toyota pickup to head back to camp.
'Next time,' Jeremy muttered from where he was falling asleep against the backseat window, 'we'll shoot it on a soundstage.'
fin.
There is nothing I can say in my defense to make this all right, except maybe: My love for this shows transcends the boundaries of good taste. I hope I did okay. I'm very nervous about this RPSstuff!
EDIT: Download the podfic here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-20 01:58 am (UTC)[Slow motion through what it looks like for three blokes to fall to the floor in a pile. It's rather brilliant, actually. A close-up of Richard's face in particular would be fantastic. After the noise had died down, James pushed at the two bodies that had landed more or less on top of him.
'If you don't get off of me in three seconds,' he said, 'I will make sure the hijackers kill you.']
That is the best, mental image I've had in days and days. :P Seriously. Oh and:
['Ransom.' It was less of a question from Richard, and more of an incredulous statement. 'Does the BBC negotiate with terrorists?'
'Well, our ratings have been decent.' James shrugged.]
So perfectly Top Gear. Thanks for sharing, it's going to my memories. I'm amazed at people who can actually capture the feel and the atmosphere of this show in writing.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-20 03:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-20 04:08 am (UTC)