He's normally half-way there, of course, but in this outing for the BBC, in which the horrid little prick played scientist, instead of wacky racer with Cameron's buddy, Clarkson, he achieved full penetration.
DOES MY HAIR LOOK BIG IN THIS?
It's bad enough that a supposedly cash-strapped BBC sends proper scientists, historians and art critics all around the globe at my expense, when they could just as easily present their theses from a static studio, sending Hammond to the depths of the ocean - and bringing the little monster back - to California, Iceland and fuck knows where else, is an extravagance offensive to all license payers,
There was a great cop and motorcycle film in the '70s - ElectraGlide In Blue - and the opening sequence was of a diminutive cop strapping himself into the various bits of leather,firearms accoutrements and sunglasses which made up his Harley-riding uniform; the scene was reprised in this load of old nonsense, with Hammond clicking and zipping and snapping the various parts of his SCUBA gear onto his tiny frame and then a cut to him pipsqueaking his way through an underwater crack in the continental plates, all flippers and bubbles and his dreadful tinny little voice, metronoming on and on, some shit about Machine Earth; it was like Michael J Fox playing David Attenborough, on helium.
The central motif of this geology for infants programme was a virtual Earth, apparently a hundred feet high, around which Wheels Hammond, veteran of a thousand rigged motoring adventures, piloted a cherrypicker, up, he went, and then up some more, skilfully operating the hydraulics just like a proper man, draining the oceans with all the panache of Peter fucking Snow on election night. Look, he squeaked, as he emptied the Pacific, a ring of volcanoes, Look, he exclaimed, the deepest, deepest place ever.
It was actually worse than I describe it, the whole programme merely a vehicle for the pint-sized, gibbering egomaniac, pointless and trivial, the few sprinklings of geological information revealed being eclipsed by Hammond's repulsive, cheeky chappie wisecracking; one is tempted to believe that the wretched little oik really does do his shopping down at Morrisons, with Alan BigBoy Hansen.... is it Hansen??? That Scottish gabshite, the one who sounds like a protection racketeer but you know he's a big fairy.
It is one of Ruin's milestones, that the BBC more and more panders to the idea of a presenter's brand supremacy, and it being interchangeable, across all subjects, believes that we would watch the thicko, Adrian Chiles, discussing heart surgery, current affairs or football and watch him with equal enthusiasm, regardless of his overwhelming unsuitability. And they are right, the boyish Alan Titmarsh in his jumpers, fronting first gardening, then natural history and then the fucking Proms; Fiona Slut-Bruce doing news, that fucking crimewatch rubbish, antiques and now art. It's alright with lightweight frothy trivia but passing mediaslag Hammond off as some sort of geophysicist is awful, the dwarf himself is obviously too far up his own arse to be bothered by the fraudulence of this tacky endeavour but anyone tuning-in and expecting an informative progarmme fronted by a knowledgeable presenter would have been disappointed to find himself watching broadcasting at the Blue Peter level. Still, fuck 'em, as they say on Feedback, the viewers, they only pay for it all.