I am a man. I have a car. It has four wheels and I quite like driving it. But, honestly, what else do you need to know? They go. Some faster than others. They come in different colours. Mine's blue and has got a CD player. They're also quite expensive. That's enough information, surely?
It would be altogether too easy and too obvious to devote the bulk of this piece to a character assassination of Jeremy Clarkson. But, hey, what's wrong with easy and obvious? The man's a prig, a smug boor who sports a ludicrous haircut and has an unfeasibly high opinion of himself. And that's just for starters.
The real wonder of Top Gear is how three unreconstructed schoolboys have persuaded the BBC to let them indulge their puerile fantasies for so long. This is nothing more than playground humour, riddled with clichés and pointless hyperbole, delivered in a grating, facetious drone.
It's all so irredeemably male. With inane and laboured analogies, each banal sentence they utter is littered with sexual connotations and lame innuendo, frequently misogynistic. At least the Stig has the good grace to remain silent and faceless.
Unbelievably there have been ten series of this drivel. Once you've seen one programme you've seen them all: they're indistinguishable. TV as wallpaper, now interminably repeated on bloke's TV.
Each episode features a new car its audience drool over but could never afford: they may feature different cars each time but the song remains the same. They also have ludicrous challenges that arguably seem to be designed more to provide an opportunity for foreign travel than genuinely test the engineering of the car. They must have a huge budget to waste.
And then, of course, there is "Star in a Reasonably Priced Car", in which celebrities check out their own testosterone levels. You can understand why Gordon Ramsay, Simon Cowell and Jimmy Carr are game for a spot of self-promotion but what on earth has induced people of the stature of Helen Mirren and Michael Gambon to participate in this garbage?
This is television for the sad and mindless - everything you hate about blokes and then some. You can see them in the gormless studio audience standing around uselessly, fawning over each presenter's pathetic pronouncements, laughing to order as though drugged or hypnotised.
These are people who get seriously turned on by all that talk of torque, understeer, traction control. This is nothing other than car pornography. I mean, just how fascinating are endless shots of cars driving along motorways?
This is a show that promotes dangerous driving and the worst kind of blokishness. It is advertising masquerading as programming. And in these ecologically minded times is it not irresponsible of the BBC to endorse a gas-guzzling sub-culture that glories in its own enormous carbon footprint?
Frankly, I would rather poke needles in my eyes than ever have to watch it again. 0 to 60 minutes and on to oblivion at the push of the remote switch.