‘Top Gear’ makes a bad week worse

IT’S been hell in the Emery household this week. Firstly, the parrot’s depressed. No, I’m serious. And no, it’s not funny.

He gets like this whenever we mess about with the clocks. He doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. So there he sits, feathers ruffled, saying nothing.

Which means I miss out on my 5am “Hello, gorgeous”. The parrot doesn’t mind that I look like Herman Munster first thing. Unlike Him Indoors. We might still be in the honeymoon stage, but he draws the line at “Hello georgeous-ing” me before I take on human form.

Talking of Him Indoors, he’s the second reason it’s been hell this week. He’s got man-flu. No, really, he has. It’s bad. Even I think it’s bad. He wakes me in the middle of the night, sweating and coughing. I have to put the pillow over my head so I can sleep.

And thirdly, poor Fiona has been off colour. Of all the ills, this has been hardest to bear. Because Fiona the Fiesta and I understand each other. We have a deal: she doesn’t let me down, and I remember to top up her oil occasionally.

Only she did let me down this week. And I blame myself. It all began with the odd grumble. Difficult to describe, but certainly different from the normal clunking when we negotiate a bend.

So I did what all self-respecting mechanical-phobes do: I turned the radio up and hoped it would go away. That was three weeks ago and the grumbling got so bad I asked Him Indoors to listen in, for a second opinion, like you do.

He turned the radio off. Which meant Fiona now sounded a bit like a jumbo jet with a sore throat. And he sent us, as an emergency, to the garage.

The mechanic listened. Felt about on poor Fiona’s wheel. Sighed. Raised his eyes heavenwards and diagnosed no brake pads. As in, metal against metal. As in, leave the car here and walk.

All this chat about cars leads me to the 12th season of “Top Gear”, albeit in a pretty convoluted way. It’s probably the programme I hate the most. And, when you consider Jeremy Kyle, that’s saying something.

I just want to ask you this question: should three grown men be allowed to encourage you to drive at great speed? To my mind, a far more dangerous proposition than two idiots phoning Andrew Sachs and leaving rude messages on this answer machine. Not nice, but not dangerous.

And don’t even get me started on driving a lorry through a brick wall. . .