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I was sitting in a fake Ferrari ready to do a three-car drifting display and unplugged my earpieces to cop a better take on just how out of tune he really was. The presenters were sitting close by, laughing and goading Frenchie via their closed loop radio mikes.

‘French,’ bellowed Clarkson, ‘get me a Glock 9mm. I’m going to shoot this man in the back of the fucking head. On stage. Back of head. Booofff, brains over the floor. Yes, I am. Because this is absolutely the worst thing I have ever seen.’

Frenchie cackled: ‘You would not believe what I’m hearing on my cans. If the guys on stage could hear Hammond and Jeremy right now …’ Then: ‘What’s that? The singer has ears on? Well, I fucking hope he can’t hear us; if he can, the guy must be a stallion to keep going …’

Navman finished off his dodgy solo by straining for a high note and dropping an octave, then handing out free satellite navigation devices to the crowd. The now happy couple finally pissed off in the right direction to a chorus of boos. There was a scuffle in the grandstands and a section of the crowd had to be removed by security. One Australian voice echoed the mood of the audience. ‘No more facking adverts, you c***s!’

Ouch. There were still four more to go before the show started …

I got my comeuppance for laughing at Navman when I starred in a luxury yacht commercial in Hong Kong. The build-up took place on screen. A champagne-quaffing mincer with orange skin dressed like James Bond carved up the waters in a mini action movie then switched from boat to car; as he exited the main screen, I appeared in a real live Aston Martin DB9.

Dressed from head to toe in black, I slid the DB9 across the stage on full opposite lock, threw it into a 360-degree spin, stopped, climbed out, drew my replica pistol and pulled the trigger. As giant bullet holes miraculously appeared on the screen, my heroics were greeted with a disconcerting amount of laughter from a predominantly male audience and whistles from a mixed crowd. Either way, I fought to hold a straight face as Colin whispered into my earpiece: ‘Ooooh, Big Boy … Big Boy with your Big Gun … Bang, Bang, oooohhhh yeeesss …’

After five performances we hit the town like inmates on a day break from Alcatraz. And suffice it to say that until you’ve heard Hammond on bass, May on keys, Jezza on the drums and Tiff Needell giving everything to his Sex Pistols impression, you haven’t lived.

Wherever we went the public viewed the presenters as their mates. The show was averaging 6–8 million viewers in the UK, with a global audience of some 500 million; the goodwill was awesome. The great thing about the live event was that it gave foreign fans an opportunity to see the show up close. In the UK, the waiting list to attend the studio was twenty years long …

It was rather reassuring that three middle-aged men cocking around with stuff could become so popular. I struggled to see them as sex symbols, but there was a unique chemistry between the presenters that was lightning in a bottle. People greeted them like rock stars. Women covered their mouths in giddy excitement and blokes sidled up to ask what the best car was. They promptly disagreed with the answer, whatever it was, hoping perhaps to engage in the kind of spirited debate they had seen so often on screen. I relished my anonymity and happily stepped aside whenever someone cut past me for a moment of their time.

It wasn’t all cakes and ale, though. In one particular bar a throng of blokes in suits and open collars, photocopier salesmen all, gathered around Hammond in a distinctly unfriendly fashion. As I made my way over to him I noticed most of them were holding mobile phones behind their backs. The screens were lit and set on video, ready to capture some celebrity happy slapping.

I’d never seen Hammond snap, but it was obvious from the look in his eye that the countdown had begun. One idiot was trying to embrace him like an old pal. I managed to intervene, slid an arm around Hammo’s waist and tried to lead him off. His