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I met Jeremy outside the pits and he was exuding confidence.

We climbed into a hired Lexus. Jezza coiled himself into the passenger seat with the top of his helmet jammed into the ceiling. The seat motor strained as it wound him rearwards for several minutes.

As I explained the basics of steering position and trail braking he started twitching and nodding his head as though the world might end if I didn’t shut up and drive. He was staring longingly at the pit lane exit. I rolled my eyes and drove off.

I hauled the Lexus in and out of the fast sweepers and casually explained why, when and how the car would understeer or oversteer moments before it did, so that he could anticipate and feel the dynamics. This held his attention for, oh, almost a lap. Then he started talking.

‘You turn in far too early there,’ into the tight left at Brooklands. ‘Why are you steering so much into that corner?’ at super fast Copse. ‘I don’t use that line there,’ through the quick left right at Becketts. Like an Olympic fencer he timed his quips exquisitely to parry my every instruction, preventing me from actually teaching him anything. Jeremy loved being told what to do the way cats love swimming.

I headed back to the pits and put Mr Smarty Pants in the driver’s seat.

Whirrrrrrrrrr, went the chair.

We had our first argument before leaving the pit.

‘Slow down for that hidden entrance in case a car comes out.’

He wobbled his noggin at me. ‘I think you’ll find I can make it out of the pits.’

Cantankerous old bugger. I tried not to smile but I couldn’t help it. Jeremy was one of those rare people that never came unstuck, even when he was out of his depth. He had the luck of the devil.

Off we went, Clarkson style. He didn’t hang around, but this was no pro. We moved from one corner to the next without sparing the horses. Jezza adopted a stiff upper lip and a straight arm as he pointed the car into Stowe corner, too early for my liking. Then we disagreed on the line for Vale.

‘See, you slid wide because you turned in early.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yes, you did. OK,’ I pointed through the long fast right in case we ran wide into the gravel trap, ‘watch it on the power here and let it run out gradually.’

‘Yes, yes, yes …’

‘Bridge Corner will be flat once you’re comfortable. The trick is to make it back to the right side before you turn left, so slow down a bit.’

He disobeyed, stayed left and we ran some gravel on the way out. ‘Hmm, tyres aren’t up to temperature …’, he muttered, mistaking our road car for a McLaren.

I was determined to teach him a safe route if nothing else, and not to repeat his legendary North Pole experience. A former sergeant from the SBS gave Jeremy a lesson on dispatching polar bears with a shotgun. He’d kicked down more doors with that particular weapon than Jezza had eaten hot breakfasts. But that didn’t stop Jeremy telling the sergeant he was wrong, and taking over the lesson. They pushed Jeremy into a frozen lake later that week, but I’m sure there was no connection.

Jeremy took his late line into Brooklands.

‘You won’t even make the corner like that when you brake later.’

‘Mmmm …’ Deep concentration.

In his own way, Jeremy was doing well. All his experience of playing on circuits and airfields was paying dividends, until a sudden change of direction at Maggots sent us sideways. Instructor mode kicked in and I grabbed the steering off him, reduced our rate of turn and made horse-whispering sounds.

‘Pah,’ Clarkson spat, shrugging off my help. ‘This is what we do.’

Maybe I was being a sissy. The car rudely snapped one way then the other, but he kept a grip of it and made the next corner with some determined car control. I cried with laughter at his obstinacy, mostly because I saw through it. Deep down, Jeremy was a sensitive soul. Really.

I force-fed him some instruction he did his best to ignore. He started braking very late for Stowe at 100mph and I needed his full attention following a disagreement on the straight. I wagged a finger at him. ‘Stop talking, stop talking, get ready, BRAKE, and