Dear Lord Hall, . My jeans are too tight, my hairstyle is an exercise in holding back the years, my friends are all incredibly Right-wing and I’ve got hog-whimperingly drunk in the presence of David Cameron on more than one occasion. But none of these are the reasons why I want you to give me Jeremy Clarkson’s job. I know many men may baulk at the suggestion that a woman can take Jeremy’s place. Just look at what happened to Sue Perkins this week, who received a barrage of abuse on Twitter when her name was mentioned for the role, along the lines of: ‘Men do cars, women do cake.’ But I think I’m perfect for the job, and my principal qualification is entirely basic. I love cars. Scroll down for video . Sarah Vine says the BBC need to look further than just men when it comes to finding a TV presenter to replace Jeremy Clarkson on Top Gear. Why? Because women love cars just as much men! I like the big ones with leather seats and walnut dashboards. I like the mad ones with three types of suspension. I like the small, nippy ones with exciting turning circles. I like the old-fashioned ones with manual chokes. I even like those weird French ones with the hydraulic suspension that feel and handle like ocean-liners. All the most memorable moments in my life feature the internal combustion engine. As a baby, the only way my parents could get me to go to sleep was to drive me round the block in their Mini Cooper. Several times. Once I’d nodded off, they’d reward themselves with a pint and a packet of crisps, leaving me happily slumbering in the pub car park. Those were more laissez-faire times. When I was four, we emigrated to Italy and the Mini was sold. I clung on to the bumper for dear life, as though they had come to take away my favourite teddy. In the end it was all right, though, because it was soon replaced by a far more exciting prospect: an orange Alfasud — an Alfa Romeo for poor people — in which we would whizz around Rome at breakneck speed. It wasn’t until my father landed a job with Fiat, however, that the motor car really became central to my life. We headed north to the car capital of the world, Turin. Back then, it was a frantic place of endless smog and honking horns. Just like Clarkson, 'my jeans are too tight and my hairstyle is an exercise in holding back the years,' says Sarah Vine, but that's not the reason she believes she'd be perfect for the vacant role on Top Gear . Here they made everything you can possibly imagine on wheels, from the great Iveco trucks to flashy Ferraris. Cars were the lifeblood of the city. Every year, when the time came to make the pilgrimage home to Britain to visit relatives, my parents would take turns driving, never stopping (they didn’t want to have to pay for a hotel room), as we children sat in the back eating our way through the vast supply of my mother’s tiny chicken sandwiches. My father, meanwhile, would smoke cigarillos, drink beer (he kept a coolbox in the front), burp loudly (much to my mother’s horror and our delight) and listen obsessively, over and over again, to whichever new music tape was grabbing his attention at the time. These trips gave me my musical education — and also instilled in me a great love of long-distance driving — not to mention an obsession with road movies: Thelma & Louise, Easy Rider, The Motorcycle Diaries, Mad Max, Disney’s Cars. Top Gear is definitely not just for male petrolheads — 40 per cent of the show’s audience is female. So you see, dear Lord Tony, to me, the motor car is so much more than a set of gears and an engine. It is freedom, possibility, adventure. And I’m no car snob either: over the years I owned cars of all pedigrees and prices, from my first, a burgundy mini van bought for £500, through various follies to a 1967 Karmann Ghia that burnt more oil than it ever did petrol. But perhaps my favourite was the old Irish-reg VW Beetle which stalled in front of the Houses of Parliament (the accelerator cable had snapped). By the time I returned from calling the AA from the phone booth — this was before mobile phones — the square had been closed off, the car surrounded by police cars and bomb disposal experts were preparing to carry out a controlled explosion on it. Oops. Now I drive a rather more reliable sky blue Fiat 500 — the new model. We have a family car, too: a tragically dull Nissan. But the Fiat is mine, and mine alone. Despite being the size of a peanut, it has six gears (I hate point-and-press automatics, they take all the fun out of driving) and a special button that says ‘sport’ on it. If I press it, the exhaust makes a pleasing ‘vroom, vroom’ noise, and my right foot itches to go all the way to the floor. You see, I like to be in control when I’m behind the wheel. I’m not one of those women who pootles along at a constant 70 in the middle lane of a motorway, rummaging around in her bag for lipstick, or surreptitiously checking her texts. When I drive a car, I really drive it. Sue Perkins (pictured) received a barrage of abuse on Twitter this week after her name was mentioned in association with presenting Top Gear . Perhaps it’s the fact that I learnt to drive in Italy, where every other driver is either a drunk or a lunatic, but I never take my eyes off the road. Driving for me is not just a means for getting from A to B, it’s a destination in itself, an exercise in judgment and quick-thinking. On the morning school run, I take great delight in achieving just the right degree of acceleration at just the right time, so that I catch a run of green lights and never end up trapped in the wrong lane. I scoff at those who drive with their eyes on the satnav instead of on the tarmac. On motorways, I check my wing and rear view mirrors every few seconds, to make sure I am at all times aware of other vehicles around me. I switch lanes constantly for speed and safety — and yes, I am one of those people who drives up behind you as you’re cruising half asleep in the fast lane and flashes their lights. It’s the fast lane, guys, the clue is in the name. As for parking — well, suffice to say, I loathe parking sensors. They’re far too jittery, and they seem to misunderstand the fundamental principle of bumpers, which is that they are for bumping. Gently, of course. Jeremy Clarkson (pictured) did not have his contract renewed with the BBC show after an incident with a member of the production staff . As for the idea of a self-parking car, it fills me with horror. I’m extremely proud of my ability to parallel park in the tiniest of places. There is huge intellectual satisfaction to be gained from judging the space just so. All this, as you can imagine, makes me the most intolerable car bore. As well as an infuriating person to have in the back seat. Which is why my poor husband, who went to immense lengths to obtain his licence after the children were born, never gets a look in. I pretend it’s because I don’t trust his driving (it took him seven attempts to pass his test). But actually his driving is fine. It’s just that I relish every and any opportunity to get behind the wheel. To feel the power beneath the pedals, to be mistress of the open road, to be in charge of the radio setting — these are some of the things that make me happiest in life. I drive, therefore I am. Yours hopefully, . Sarah . (aka Mrs Toad) PS. I have a full, clean driving licence.
Sue Perkins received abuse on Twitter when her name was mentioned .
The general opinion being stated was ‘Men do cars, women do cake.’
Here, Sarah Vine states why women are often just as keen on cars as men .