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Fail of the century #10: McLaren X-1 | Top Gear

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You awake with a start, blinking in the harsh light. Where am I? How did I get here? A hard chair. An unfamiliar room. Empty, sterile. The whirr of air- conditioning. A row of white desks, each empty save for a neat row of pencils and sheaf of paper. A design studio. In front of you, a tall slab of cork, pinned with photographs. Gingerly you stand and move towards it. A moodboard.

Eyes struggling in the pin-white light, you squint at the pictures.

An art deco clock. A grand piano. A black and white photo of Audrey Hepburn. An aubergine.

Involuntarily, you shiver. What deranged mind would wish to fuse these discordant images into a single entity? What Frankenstein would emerge? What dreaded purpose might it serve?

A pneumatic hiss. Behind you, a hatch slides open. You pass through it, as if compelled by a high force. Ahead, a long corridor. White, empty. Doors line both sides. You try each one in turn. Locked, locked, locked.

Finally, a click. The door swings ajar. A cell. And in it, worse than you dared imagine, the gruesome genetic experiment. The Victorian freakshow. McLaren badge, yes, but like no McLaren you’ve ever seen. Like no car you’ve ever seen. You try to scream, no sound comes out. What is this? A dream? A nightmare? No such luck. This is real. This is the McLaren X-1.

# data.attributes.body.processed
You awake with a start, blinking in the harsh light. Where am I? How did I get here? A hard chair. An unfamiliar room. Empty, sterile. The whirr of air- conditioning. A row of white desks, each empty save for a neat row of pencils and sheaf of paper. A design studio. In front of you, a tall slab of cork, pinned with photographs. Gingerly you stand and move towards it. A moodboard.

Eyes struggling in the pin-white light, you squint at the pictures.

An art deco clock. A grand piano. A black and white photo of Audrey Hepburn. An aubergine.

Involuntarily, you shiver. What deranged mind would wish to fuse these discordant images into a single entity? What Frankenstein would emerge? What dreaded purpose might it serve?

A pneumatic hiss. Behind you, a hatch slides open. You pass through it, as if compelled by a high force. Ahead, a long corridor. White, empty. Doors line both sides. You try each one in turn. Locked, locked, locked.

Finally, a click. The door swings ajar. A cell. And in it, worse than you dared imagine, the gruesome genetic experiment. The Victorian freakshow. McLaren badge, yes, but like no McLaren you’ve ever seen. Like no car you’ve ever seen. You try to scream, no sound comes out. What is this? A dream? A nightmare? No such luck. This is real. This is the McLaren X-1.