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We made our way over to an unremarkable fleet of brand-new Toyota Aygos, the type of box your dotty aunt might call a ‘sweet runabout’. Little bug-eyed headlights looked nervously at the prospect of pillage at the hands of ten twisted joyriders.

We knew we hadn’t been called in to drive within the DSA guidelines, but no one really expected to write off ten brand-new cars …

James ‘Boicey’ Bryce, a protégé of Ridley Scott, was directing the shoot and explained the format: ‘What we want to do today is start off with some precise driving shots, hitting the ball to see if you can actually knock it into the goal, with no contact. We’ll stop the game after about ten minutes to check cameras. Then we might allow a little contact and gradually build up the tempo.’

Sideways grins suggested otherwise.

My Aygo was a demonstrator fresh out of the dealership and still smelt of sweet silicon. The plastic steering wheel and reasonably priced instruments gleamed. She had been carefully delivered with paper sheets in the footwells and plastic seat covers.

I chucked those out straightaway, wedged a couple of pennies into the handbrake button and taped them down with gaffer – et voilà, a flyaway handle.

At first no one knew what to do; it was the school disco with everyone hanging around the sidelines to see what would happen next. I weaved my car around the pitch and pinched the waist-high inflatable ball from Wiseman, who was marshalling on foot.

You could dribble by knocking the ball forward and accelerating behind it. It was so light that the air speed would raise the ball off the ground and you could carefully place it on the nose or windscreen to drive it along. The trick was anticipating when the ball would roll off centre, steering into it and using the wind to line it up again. Straightforward, until someone suddenly parked in front of you.

The more confident drivers became with the ball, the less willing they were to share it with anyone else. Stealing and ‘tackling’ became increasingly aggressive and Russ was taking no prisoners. He shot across my bonnet so fast I thought I’d accidentally driven across a motorway. I had to brake and swerve hard to avoid him. He was utterly ruthless. I admired the fact that he was defending his territory. Two could play that game.

The only problem with car footie was that the damn ball kept blowing away in the wind. The cameramen, Wiseman and Boicey, spent much of their time booting it back into play and trying not to get run over. When Wiseman found himself holding the ball surrounded by a gaggle of impatient Aygos, Boicey radio’d a stop.

‘We’ve got some great stuff here, guys. We’re just going to keep filming now. Keep an eye on your in-car cameras. If the light goes out, get it recharged and watch out for the marshals. You can make a little contact now.’

Ahem.

I wasn’t comfortable with scratching the immaculate Aygo and laboured under the pretence that I could score the most goals without putting a mark on it. After all, the competition was just a bunch of touring car biffs, two TV presenters and one old man.

We formed two semicircles around the ball for the kick-off. I punted it over the other side and slipped through a gap, caught up with the ball and dribbled it beautifully towards the goal at 30mph. Suddenly Hammond shot across me, hit the ball away and stopped dead. I jammed the brakes to avoid him and saw red.

‘I’m on your team, you lunatic.’

‘Hahaaa, sorreee …’

Off he went.

A couple of cars crowded the ball, nudging it and then reversing but going nowhere. Nobody would cede ground. I joined from the left and bounced it into the air. As it landed, my car was rocked to the right as Russ Swift drove into my front left wheel arch and punted the ball away. My space had been invaded. It was First Blood, and the rest of the sharks tasted it in the water.

After that first dent, the tempo wound right up. Minor scrapes at first, then full-on wheel banging. No one cared to look behind before