THE grass, so the saying goes, is always greener on the other side of the fence. However, as we all know from experience, while other people’s circumstances may appear to be more desirable than our own, in reality that is invariably not the case.

Take, as an example (albeit a fictional one), John Sullivan’s classic cockney wide boy Del Trotter, whose perennial resolution was to be a millionaire. When his fortunes changed beyond his wildest dreams, Del Boy soon discovered that riches do not guarantee happiness.

Yours truly has long held an ambition to be lighthouse keeper, though not one marooned on some isolated rock such the Longships Lighthouse a mile and a half off Land’s End. Give me a lighthouse firmly rooted on terra firma like the wonderful 19th century structures dotted along the coast of the Australian state of Victoria from the Bellarine Peninsula to Cape Otway.

The only problem with this unusual ambition is that, with the automation of lighthouses, job prospects are pretty thin – a bit like being a millennium party planner or a milkman in Brigadoon.

Fortunate are those for whom life pans out according to their dreams. People who find a vocation early on and get to spend every working day doing exactly what they want – and, moreover, getting paid for the pleasure and in many instances helping their fellows or saving lives – are the lucky ones. Not for them the daily grind as a wage slave counting down the days to annual leave, Bank Holidays and Christmas.

There are times, usually when stuck at yet another set of traffic lights that pop up with annoying frequency in Grande Route de Faldouet, when my mind drifts to thoughts of a path of temptingly lush alternative pasture.

If there was one job I would love to have, even more than being a lighthouse keeper, it has to be as a presenter on Top Gear.

Hang on a mo, cry the unified chorus of boy- and middle-aged racers and drivers of gas guzzling Chelsea tractors who bear the frequent brunt of my criticism, she doesn’t even like cars!

Not so. I am fond of motor vehicles, and even fonder of long-distance driving. I just fail to see the point, especially in the confines of Jersey, of driving any vehicle that costs more than the average wage, is the size of a small house extension, or simply serves the purpose in the eyes of the owner of being a status symbol to impress the other ladies on the private school run.

The appeal of Top Gear is not as a means of solely reviewing new cars. If it were, it would indeed have a very narrow appeal.

This BBC series, copied by rival channels and in other countries, derives its widespread popularity from the chemistry between presenters Jeremy Clarkson, James May and Richard Hammond.

What also makes Top Gear a ratings winner is not their driving skills or expert knowledge, but their total indifference to needless and overbearing authority and the elf ‘n’ safety zealots who blight every step of modern life in the increasingly nanny state.

Top off their charisma with a laissez faire attitude to the equally stifling politically correct brigade of killjoys, and the Top Gear presenters are the undoubted heroes of Middle England. So what if they upset the odd ambassador or an entire nation along the way? As Jezza, James and the Hamster would say: ‘Either get a life or a sense of humour, or switch to another channel!’

Anyone of an over-sensitive nature, rabid feminists and dullards who have undergone a humour bypass are also advised to turn over. However, if you can laugh at yourself while laughing with them, then each programme is a laugh a minute.

As with the life of a lighthouse keeper, there is a romantic allure to presenting Top Gear. Travelling to far-flung locations to undertake bizarre challenges must be a hoot, and who wouldn’t want to rub shoulders with the plethora of stars who test their driving skills in a reasonable prized car?

It’s a dream job if ever there was one, with plenty of opportunities for lucrative moonlighting in between series presenting other equally enjoyable programmes.

The magic of Top Gear is that Clarkson, May and Hammond get to live the dream of never growing up. Like middle-aged Peter Pans the world over, they have never left the playground, while being paid footballers’ wages to boot to play the adult equivalent of cowboys and injuns or winning World War Two during the lunch break.

Top Gear has the same appeal and feel-good formula that kept the BBC sitcom Last of the Summer Wine on our screens for 37 years. Again, grown men, in the main well past the age of retirement, drive the women in their lives mad as they spend seemingly endless days indulging in larks, escapades and adventures as if life was one long summer holidays, school was out for ever and the only thing to worry about is where to get the next cup of tea.

The childhood dreams we had when gazing at passing clouds from a stuffy classroom remain with us to our dying day. Nor, when we supposedly grow up, do we necessarily put away childish things.

Where is the harm of occasionally releasing the child inside? Being serious day in, day out is boring and wastes far too many minutes in our already short lives.