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He reluctantly tried my early line at Brooklands. ‘You might be right about that one …’ Bloody hell, progress.

I dropped Jeremy at the racing school, into the hands of the very instructors who first taught me over a decade earlier. Nothing had changed: the same short-sleeve sun-tans, Ray Bans and one-liners.

‘What’s he like?’ asked Steve Warburton, twice the size of when I first met him, but no slower.

‘Difficult.’

‘Oh, we like those. Makes the smell of fear so much sweeter.’

James May joined us, dressed in a brown leather Belstaff jacket. Flight Lieutenant May did indeed look like the right stuff, rosy-cheeked and ready for action. ‘Morning, Squadron Leader, May reporting for duty.’

‘These guys will show you the ropes, Jimbo. Don’t be shy of pushing it so you can figure out the braking points around here.’

‘Steely-eyed speed warriors, aye. Right-oh, let the learning commence.’

I left them all standing outside the classroom puffing away at their cigarettes. Once they passed their race licences we could go and try out the BMW.

Hammond was busy filming elsewhere. The first time he would drive the track or car would be during qualifying.

Come the race weekend, maintaining my anonymity became tricky. I had to sign on officially for the race and my pseudonym didn’t cut the mustard. The organisers needed to know who was behind the helmet, and that he held a racing licence. I signed on to a separate driver sheet and made sure that I never appeared in person again for the rest of the weekend.

Jeremy had been practising in the BMW for a day before the other two turned up for the race. I stood in front of a large map of the circuit ready to explain gears, speeds and racing lines, but obviously couldn’t have managed without Jeremy’s help.

He soon lumbered towards me. ‘Right, I turn in here at Copse in third gear, but I think it could be fourth …’ and so on.

We’d be racing alongside GT2 spec machines capable of 200mph to our 120. My main concern was that if the presenters spun in front of a field of mixed-ability drivers, they could be hurt. I pinpointed the key areas on the track where they should expect faster traffic and explained where to overtake and where the loonies would try to out-brake them. Just crossing the straights in order to line up for the next corner was a major undertaking in a crowded race and it was easy to get turned around.

I turned my attention to our wheels. BBC guidelines prohibited us from having official sponsors, so we made some up. Larsen’s Biscuits and Peniston Oils logos were emblazoned across the side of the car. Coincidentally, when the door opened during driver changes, they shortened to ‘Arse’ and ‘Penis’.

Euphoria Racing had prepared the car, led by engineer Steve Howard. Steve was forever coated in stubble, engine oil and fag ash, and kept his butt crack on display at all times. He and his crew, whom we nicknamed NASA, were absolutely tireless.

Steve swept away his scraggly blond hair and offered me a seat aboard his baby. The racing seat was protected by a tube roll cage, and was bolted into the bare metal floor. All semblance of road car finery was in the skip, bar the stereo.

It was clearly The Stig’s responsibility to post the fastest time in qualifying to position us as high up the sixty-strong grid as possible. We put the presenters out first to ensure they completed their minimum requirement of three laps. James forgot how many laps he’d done and had to make a second run, leaving me to carry the can at the end of the session.

I hopped in and got straight on it. The BMW was a wobbly old crate and the front end was numb as a brick, but she was excellent on the brakes. The constant understeer made her a safe school pony for the presenters, but without any grunt to balance it I found the experience over-bridled.

The track was packed with cars and I lost heaps of time driving around them. There was no time to find clear position, so my fastest lap put us one place from last. Worse still – piss-boilingly, catastrophically