If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then those British Top Gear geezers would no doubt be blushing like Jesuit nuns at a Sexpo.

Either that or they would be very confused at seeing carbon copies of themselves, albeit with Aussie accents, staring back at them from the screen.

The Australian version of that much-loved accidental hit Top Gear premiered on SBS last night (Mondays, 7.30pm) and, sadly, just like the Smith’s chips packets say: the original really is the best.

The hosts, firstly, are a risk.

Charlie Cox is self-assured, sarcastic and arrogant just like Jeremy Clarkson, but not in Jez’s likeable way.

Steve Pizzati is as jumpy and earnest as his alter ego Richard Hammond and Warren Brown is full of geek and bad jokes, perfectly resembling his mirror image James May.

But as those of us know who have repeatedly taped over the same VHS, when you reproduce something, a little of the original quality shine is lost.

The Aussie three really battle to achieve a chemistry beyond the tired jibes over driving skills; they often talk over each other and don’t appear to enjoy each other’s company.

In fact, they don’t seem to enjoy much at all.

The thing I adore about the UK Top Gear is the hosting trio’s unabashed, jump-up-and-down enthusiasm when faced with the prospect of driving some of the most awe-inspiring machines ever built.

They regularly crack up laughing, shout with delight, grunt with ecstasy at lightning-fast gear changes, purr in quiet deference to masterful motoring engineering and woo hoo with the best of them when pushing engines/steering/tyres to their absolute limit – and all this from supposedly reserved Englishmen.

There was none of that last night and none of the larrikinism I would have expected. They are all a bit dorky, I’m afraid.

Lowlights were the celebrity appearance of Vince Colosimo (who Charlie refused to listen to, causing numerous awkward moments); the audience (were they actually alive or painted faces on chipboard – I couldn’t tell); and Warren’s segment based on the question: could a shark eat a car.

That’s right, could a shark eat a car.

What are you? Five years old?

What will you do next week, Warren? Hypothesise as to who would win a race between Han Solo in his Millennium Falcon and Roger Ramjet in his American Eagle Squadron fighter jet? The Batmobile versus KITT from Knight Rider? Come on.

The challenge, which saw the three guys in different “soft-roaders” (a Nissan X-Trail, Subaru Forester and Toyota Rav4) going off road from the snow to the sea, was good fun, I’ll admit. But did anyone win?

Where was the fanfare and bragging done by the winner? Where was the tension leading up to the finish line? Was there a finish line?

I must make mention of some of the most extraordinary editing I have ever seen in a TV show – most of it misplaced. The shark segment particularly rose to a maddening and chaotic crescendo of such ridiculously fast edits that my eyes hurt.

Also, the hosts were regularly caught on the wrong camera and yet other cameras were caught in shot as control room producers got a little Ritalin-fingered with their cues.

Do me a favour and cool that hand, Luke, and cut back on the methamphetamines, ok?

Hmm. So where to from here?

Our hosting trio need to relax. Get out and have a few beers together and tell tall tales about cars.

Film it, but promise me you’ll forget you are being filmed. Watch it back and aim for that every Monday night.

Get your audience involved, talk to them ... ask them what their favourite car is, what their first car was, why they like cars, how many they have ... anything, but talk to them!

Directors, watch the pace. It lurched from psychotic to trance-like between segments, making me feel like I was back in my 1981 Mazda 626, learning how to drive a manual.

Get rid of the script – ban the autocue – and wing it.

Apparently you all have some serious motoring knowledge between you. Trust it. Trust each other and bloody go for it!

– REBECCA MARSHALL