Waves of apathy greeted the new hosts, as the show plodded on with its derivative blend of car-porn and ambivalence to Health & Safety protocol. As edgy as blancmange, and just as white, apocalyptic predictions were confounded, as the same brand of laddish codswallop was streamed to our homes. With an anti-climax on par with Windows Vista and the last series of 'Lost'. One devoted fan complained: 'It wasn't anywhere near as racist as the original, although come to think of it neither was the original - I just remember it that way...a bit like the 1950s'.
A reviewer wrote: 'Its cars and blokes. Blokey cars. Car-ish blokes. It's...oh my God, who gives a sh$t! Is this my life? Is this seriously my life? I used to have hopes - dreams - a vague interest in light Opera. I can't bear it - the contrived Clarkson/Evans debate - it's eating my soul. Sarah? I want to come home. I want to see the kids. Can you forgive me?'
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