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Braam, Ascari’s short-stacked South African Team Manager, swung by the hospital.

‘Ben-jamin. Grab your shit and let’s get out of ’ere.’

I pulled myself up.

‘Jeez, boy, you ain’t gonna dance the Macarena for some time, eh?’

We boarded Romania’s most dilapidated taxi. Carpet oddments covered rusted-out holes in the floor and its shock absorbers didn’t absorb. The driver spotted the racing logos on our shirts, dropped a gear and gave us the Grand Prix treatment over every pothole in the city. His overtaking technique was novel. He rode the rear bumper of the car in front and accelerated repeatedly into oncoming traffic until they waved a white flag. Mike Tyson worked my torso for ten rounds until we made it to the airport and boarded the plane to London.

After the short flight to Luton airport, the effect of the mysterious painkillers in glass vials had worn off. I clicked on my mobile to call my old man and it rang within seconds. I heard the quiet, apologetic voice of an old family friend, and knew immediately that my dad was dead.

I wanted to rip the advertising boards off the wall of the airport, pull up the paving slabs and tear down the sky. In my pathetic state all I could do was crumple to the floor and sob.

The man who had given me every opportunity to live the life I wanted was gone. I’d never thanked him enough and there was so much more I needed to say to him.

I later discovered that in the confusion of trying to reach me to break the news, Mum had phoned Georgie. Mum struggled to find the words, and Georgie fell to the floor thinking I was a goner.

Dad had the last word. When I got down to sorting out his affairs I found two sets of papers lying open in his spartan apartment. A printout of my Romanian qualifying sheet rested under his magnifying glass, alongside reviews of over a hundred prams.

The Stiglet was due in just over three months. I needed to pull myself together for the sake of Georgie and the baby. Inside I was broken.

Chapter 28

London Calling

With four knackered ribs I was no use to anybody for some time. But two days after getting home I was contacted by Top Gear to film a race across London. I was desperate for a distraction and, since The Stig had no known bone structure, I heard myself agreeing.

The purpose of the race was to determine, in a totally scientific manner, the fastest means of travel between Kew Gardens and London City Airport.

The Stig would be taking public transport whilst the presenters proceeded by boat, car and bicycle. I duly appeared at Kew, swallowed some painkillers and eased into my white overalls and helmet in the urinals of a nearby pub. Superman, eat your heart out. Pushing my left arm through the tight sleeve of the suit made my eyes water. I finally squeezed myself in and headed across to the ‘start line’ for the presenters’ opening piece to camera.

For the purpose of the film I was being ‘delivered’ to the set on a sack truck by Top Gear’s ‘men in white coats’. Realising that the low metal frame would apply all the weight to my ribcage, Andy Wilman, in a touching moment of compassion, fitted a broom handle to extend its load-bearing structure to neck height.

Uncharacteristically, it took the presenters five takes to wheel me into the shot. Finally, we were off. We split into four mini crews and went our different directions. Whilst Jezza, Hammo and May had scripts pretty much in hand for how their journeys would appear on camera, mine would be entirely spontaneous. As the presenters voiced their opinions on road traffic and the Thames speed limits for the benefit of the camera, I fronted up with the public.

First up was a queue of school kids at the bus stop. ‘Take your helmet off,’ they pleaded. ‘Yeeeaaaahhhhh!’

Oyster card in hand, I surfed the bus system, with Wilman directing the cameraman to pick up anything that caught his eye. As we headed into the Underground I remembered the scene in Crocodile Dundee where bushmaster Mick fights shy of the escalator, so I stopped, teetered on the edge and did an about face.

On the tube