Richard Hammond likes fighting. He really does. He was once bitterly disappointed that he wouldn't be able to take part in a proposed boxing programme called something like 'I'm a celebrity, get me in the ring and see if I can last three rounds'. I believe he also once had a 'friendly fight' with someone inside a pick-up truck.
In Hammond's ideal world, all the pub furniture in Britain would be made from balsa wood and all the windows from boiled sugar, so we could all have a big brawl in the evening without doing any serious damage. In truth, he should have been in the army. The gurkhas, perhaps.
Meanwhile - and I think Clarkson's with me on this one - I hate fighting, largely because I'm very bad at it. Even in a world where quite a few people seem to want to punch me in the face, I will still do everything within my considerable diplomatic power to talk my way out of a scrap.
This is why it's quite good hanging around with Hammond, because if I fail to disarm my enemies with tact, I can always set the world's hardest hamster on them. In return, I once negotiated his escape from a pub in which he'd almost started a fight with six off-duty American marines. Pillock.