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Clarkson was a force of nature, but the other two were pretty regular guys who happened to be superb at presenting information to camera. Hammond’s ability to consume a script and thoughtfully regurgitate it on to the screen was uncanny, whilst James had to, if anything, dampen his encyclopaedic mechanical knowledge to a level that befitted light entertainment. Me? I was having a ball. My responsibilities had expanded into choreography and co-ordination, so no two days were ever the same.

Chapter 26

Jet Man

The plan was simple: drive a jet car as fast as it would go, which meant 300mph and then some.

‘The car is basically a dragster,’ Grant explained. ‘Giant wheels at the back, little wheels at the front – you know the kind of thing. The difference,’ he chuckled, ‘is that this baby is powered by a jet engine like the one they used for the Red Arrows.’

‘Sounds … interesting …’ I said, not believing for a second that this would come to anything.

‘It’s called a Vampire. It’s been purpose built and customised by the owner. It would be the fastest thing we’ve ever featured. Ideally we’d like a presenter to drive it, with a bit of help from you.’

I asked who was running it, naively expecting the answer to be McLaren or Williams. It wasn’t.

Schemes like this came and went with Top Gear, and the Vampire wheeze looked as flimsy as a paper fire-fighting suit. A TV presenter in a 300mph dragster? No chance. I wondered for a moment if they might drop the presenter bit and send me up and down the runway for the footage. My stomach tightened.

‘Er … Let me know how you get on …’ I said.

Two weeks later the phone rang again. This wasn’t going away. Hammond might not be available, what did I think about James May driving it?

‘No way; he won’t do it.’ The words came out without me thinking.

‘Really, why do you say that?’

James was a sensible bloke who flew aeroplanes and pretended he couldn’t drive; he wasn’t exactly an adrenalin junky. You needed to be slightly unhinged to want to drive down a runway at 300mph like spam in a can. Sure, it took some skill launching off the line and holding the car straight, but no amount of it could save you if the engine exploded, the wheels fell off, the parachute failed or if you involuntarily shat out your kidneys with fear. You either needed to be immune to the consequences of mechanical failure, or have balls the size of space hoppers.

‘300mph is a huge speed. It’s not like anything you experience in a normal car. I’m not saying James isn’t brave, but his idea of exercise is similar to Clarkson’s – a glass of wine and a fag. We crack 225mph at Le Mans, and even that’s a long way short of what this thing can do.’

‘I know. This thing will do 330mph. The British record is, like, 300. Officially we’re not actually going for it – but it would be nice if it happened.’

I imagined being at the airfield with a mirage part way down the gigantic runway. I pictured James’s doe eyes peering out of his visor, with 5,000 pounds of thrust breathing down the back of his neck. He’d flick a switch and hit 270mph within six seconds.

‘If anything goes wrong, it’ll be a mighty big shunt; then it’ll come down to fitness. Hammond is tough. I’d be happy doing it with him, but not James.’

Core stability and strength literally held all your bits and pieces together on impact. There would be no small shunts at 300mph; why else did they pack a parachute?

Grant was on the dog again the following week.

‘We’ve got Hammond; he’s really up for it. I’m sorting some kit out. We’ve got some overalls kicking around in the office, think they’re Nomex. Hammond says he’s got a motorbike helmet that he’s comfortable with—’

‘He needs a proper F1 helmet, an Arai GP5. Not the toy one he’s got for his bike; don’t let him use that. How old are the overalls?’

‘Not sure. Couple of years …’

I explained that they wouldn’t be fire retardant any more. He needed a new triple-layer Nomex suit. If the jet fuel ignited, every second