Devise a television show for men who fantasise about being in control, saying whatever they damned please and driving fast cars with impossible price tags and you'd be a millionaire - as is, they say, Jeremy Clarkson. He's the man who can say, 'L'etat, c'est moi' of Top Gear, a TV programme with a reported global audience of 600 million. Top Gear loves Ferraris and hates any celebrity who can't double declutch, but the real draw is the mouth that roars, the inimitable Clarkson, who rarely resists an opportunity to be offensive - he recently upset Britain's truck drivers by saying it was part of their daily routine to kill prostitutes. In January, he flew to Moscow, claiming he 'wanted to eat my supper from the toned belly of a Ukrainian hooker while snorting pink cocaine from the back of a golden swan'. Both were the kind of non-PC joke that makes Clarkson a successful big-mouthed money machine. This is not the kind of humour that works well with people who are worried about losing face - Clarkson likes to lose their face for them and then get them totally drunk as he helps them find it. Tall, no bum, a perfectly round bald patch shining through his curly hair, he'll rip the snot out of anything and anyone. That's part of the show's - and the man's - appeal. His tales are often self-deprecating and involve wall-to-wall pole dancers or naked waitresses - and damn the puritans who might condemn any of that as exploitative. Clarkson sees his shtick differently. 'All of my friendships are based on teasing. I don't know if that is a particularly English thing or whether it is me but ... you can never be a true friend with someone until you have teased them because only then can you feel comfortable.' Thus Top Gear pivots on the friendships between the presenters, the car manufacturers and the audience. Of course, if you can't keep up with the teasing, then it could seem like bullying - not that Clarkson would ever concede that, just as he doesn't see his own brand of critique as jokey xenophobia. 'No,' Clarkson says, 'because xenophobia is a fear of foreigners. You can't have a jokey fear. I am not frightened of foreigners in any way.' Nevertheless, he'll say driving a certain car is like getting some disease from an Ethiopian transsexual hooker. In its 12th series, Top Gear is a TV phenomenon - although it failed in the United States - and now Top Gear Live is selling out large venues such as London's Earl's Court Exhibition Centre on the first leg of its global tour - the finale of which takes place in Hong Kong. With driving ace Marchy Lee Ying-kin as translator for those who may, like the Americans, not quite grasp Top Gear's playfulness, the show is expected to pack out 20,000 seats at the Convention and Exhibition Centre in February. If you know what an alternator is, you probably have tickets already. Like initiates at a Masonic gathering, the Top Gear faithful trickled into Earl's Court last month, smug in the knowledge they had tickets. As the church of latter day petrol-heads, Top Gear Live sells out fast. First, there was the MPH Show (a glorified car showroom really) then the whoop-and-holler stage show with all the favourites from the TV show - the jeans-clad hero, Clarkson, the death-defying Richard Hammond and The Stig, the mystery masked driver who never speaks. James May, the most genteel of the group, doesn't travel well so local presenters will be hired on tour to lure in those uninitiated to the glory of burning rubber and wisecracks. Put like that, the show sounds pretty good - even to those who worry about global warming and oil wars. OUTSIDE THE EXHIBITION centre, a man stubs out a cigarette; his son wears a hat advertising Formula One sponsor Vodaphone. They are here to see Clarkson - but how can they admire a man who blew up a double-decker London Routemaster bus - one of only a handful in existence - and who punched a newspaper editor - surely not a good thing, whether he deserved it or not. What kind of a role model is that? 'We like Clarkson,' says the boy. 'He's funny. And you learn stuff.' The boy's father agrees. Cornering a pair of women - pixie boots, lots of jewellery, big smiles - in the freezing ladies' loo, it seems Top Gear is not just for boys who aspire to drive beyond their skill. 'I love Clarkson,' says one. 'Men are all just big kids anyway ... and Clarkson's funny. And I should know how to handle boys. I have three at home.' The women's obvious glee at being in an exhibition centre full of cars proves the show's mass appeal. 'It isn't men, you see,' Clarkson says. 'Women, keep saying [about Top Gear], 'It's men, it's men, it's men' and it isn't. One of the things you could say is, 'OK fine. The boy in the household, the 11-year-old, he watches Top Gear OK so he wants to come to Top Gear Live.' The father goes, 'I would kind of like to see that as well', because all men, whether they are 11, 60 or 40 have a mental age of 11. The daughter wants to see [Hammond], which is fantastic, and the mother goes, 'I don't care what the bloody hell this is, I have the whole family together, I'm happy.' That could be a part of it.' Before the stage show starts, visitors peruse the MPH exhibition, an enormous display of chrome, rubber and shiny paintjobs - cars, things that fly, cars cut in half, the Batmobile. Members of the crowd utter things like, 'That's an Apache gunship ... of course, the guns aren't real, you can see that.' The cars are the stars - and there are some beauties - but there are display women too. Gone are the days of bikini-clad models draped over gleaming bumpers. Now, well-clad show ponies with long legs, bright smiles and torsos so thin there must be little room for their internal organs, chat animatedly with the throng. One mannequin-perfect woman sits, cross-legged and regal, startling passers-by when she moves her eyes. Among the concession stands, is a perfume stall - craftily located near the sausage hut. Devoid of women, or, in fact, any customers, it seems to exist solely to provide placatory gifts to take home by the man who feels guilty about his motoring obsession. The awaited moment draws near and the crowd shuffles towards the back of the hall, clutching green and red show cards and the Top Gear Christmas gifts catalogue. After the obligatory dancers, dry ice and music, a few exciting real-life car advertisements start. Fooled by the advertorial, the atmosphere calms a bit as more cars emerge, driven quickly and almost colliding. At last, Clarkson, Hammond and May appear to ecstatic applause. The smell of over-heated tyres increases as parade after parade of cars are wheeled out and critiqued. Miked up, Clarkson goes to the crowd for opinions. 'Do we like the Audi? What about the Rolls Royce?' Hold up a red card for no, a green card for yes and the results are displayed on the big screen over the stage. Top Gear always needs a race. Who can soup- up ordinary vehicles (a milk-float, a horse box, a caravan) the best and win over three laps of the stage? Hammond, aka The Hamster, dons a fat Evel Knievel suit, gets on a motorcycle and jumps a bus. Smart cars play a potentially fender-bending game of football. It isn't so much the fancy metal and the acrobatics that get the crowd going but the smartass micky-taking between Clarkson, Hammond and May. Each presenter has his own character - the bore, the short kid, the pedant. As its first outing, the show looks a little rough - an amateurish fest of boys with toys. Written as it goes along, by the time it hits Hong Kong, it'll be solid as a rock and ready to destroy all the vehicles that will have been, until then, carefully looked after. But Top Gear isn't about sophisticated commentary. It's grown boys saying things they shouldn't and maybe breaking something expensive. Backstage the banter comes thick and fast, with the c-word bandied about a lot. It's like being inside the male brain - the brain of an 11-year-old, if Clarkson is to be believed. In his muscular voice, Clarkson says he loves Hong Kong. 'I have spent a lot of time there, but for only a short period of time. It has the best view in the entire world: at dusk across the harbour. [It is] my favourite place in the world to have a glass of Chablis.' He assures us that, as Hong Kong will be the finale of the tour, Top Gear will party even harder here, whatever that means. Maybe he knows how close the HKCEC is to the flesh pots of Wan Chai, where he might just find his Ukrainian hooker. 'Yes, [we will party] massively and I am very fond of Hong Kong,' he says, 'and I am going to be equally flattering about all the other places we're going to.' The liberated male, Clarkson cuts through the nonsense, happily substituting it with his own. He's funny and charming, and with his belligerent rationale, Clarkson's confidence is alluring - but as you feel yourself being beguiled, he goes and spoils it all by saying something stupid like, 'Global warming? I don't care. We live in a miserable, pissy, wet country. We'll take all the global warming we can get.' As King of the Blokes, Clarkson can still be sensible. Briefly. For instance, he pooh-poohs the idea that Top Gear is beloved by emasculated men who crave a measurable world of speed and power to feel like men. 'I don't even necessarily believe [the show's appeal has] anything to do with speed and power,' says Clarkson. 'A woman said to me the other day that she watches Top Gear because it gives her the best insight into the male mind. It is an entertainment show that's got cars in it. It is not just speed and power ... but [the cars] have to be fast. We can't stand slow ones. 'I think the customers [of Top Gear] are the same the world over, except America, weirdly. If you have the mental age of an 11-year-old - which binds James, Richard and me together - or if you are actually 11 years old, the show has a resonance. I don't think it matters two hoots, whether you are Hong Kong Chinese, from Auckland, Johannesburg, Sydney. I don't see a difference.' As for the live show's inherent risks, Clarkson says he expects a serious crash or two. 'The fact is half the time you don't know which of the cars are going to break down,' he says. As for the safety of the drivers, 'health and safety [H&S] is the biggest waste of time in the entire world', Clarkson says. 'We crashed a lorry [on the show] and we had all the safety checks in the world. H&S told me what speed I had to do. As I was driving along I thought, 'You know this would look so much better if I crashed faster' ... so what is the point of having H&S there?' Hammond nods in agreement, a surprise considering he suffered severe brain trauma when he crashed a dragster two years ago. On his return to the show last January, Top Gear aired footage of the horrific 463km/h wipeout, which left the young father playing with Lego in an attempt to re-engage his faculties. '[How did the show respond] to my parking accident?' Hammond asks. 'We laughed our tits off,' Clarkson chimes in. 'We laughed our asses off. What else would you expect?' What if something happened to Clarkson? 'Nobody could possibly step in. The whole show would have to be cancelled. James May would be back in the gutter,' he says. Is Hong Kong likely to be offended by the ribaldry of the live show? 'I love travelling and I love going aboard,' says Clarkson, 'and it is only because you feel comfortable in other countries and comfortable about being English that you can say we can tease each other. I want [Hongkongers] to tease me about being English. I'll be saying things like, 'Fancy wanting to be Chinese!'. There are a million things that you can do [and say]. And what I hope and pray is that they give it me back: 'You ruined Hong Kong. You're useless. Your buses are too tall, etc.' You see what I am saying? You just hope you get it back because then everyone can relax.' So remember, it isn't bullying. It's teasing. Jeremy Clarkson just wants to be friends. Top Gear Live will take place in Hall 3 of the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre between February 20 and 22. Tickets are available from HK Ticketing ( www.hkticketing.com ).
