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Jeremy rightly figured he’d run dry well short of Blackpool and opted for the longer, motorway route to avoid gas-guzzling traffic jams. Hammond took the direct route, the downside being he would burn fuel traversing hills. May chose something in between.

I arrived with ‘my’ crew at Blackpool’s central bus terminal and hopped off the National Express in the white suit. The Stig’s day out in Blackpool began in the theme park. Whilst the presenters sweated traffic, I rode in a teacup through the House of Horrors. Whilst they did complicated sums about fuel consumption, I sat through a magic show, marvelling at the sparkly lights in the ceiling and the strange folk plucking rabbits from hats. Then I met a palm reader on the Pier who couldn’t see my future through the white glove. She was a sweet, beautifully rounded lady with an all-year tan and mandatory headscarf.

‘I can’t read him,’ she kept saying. ‘Not unless I look into his eyes or see his hands …’

The director wouldn’t hear of it. ‘He never takes his gloves or helmet off. Not even when he goes to sleep.’

I lifted my visor a tad. ‘Oooooooh,’ she said, ‘you’ve a bright future …’

More please. ‘You’ll be wealthy …’

OK …

‘You’re at a big crossroads. You must leave the old path before choosing.’

Ouch.

I snapped my visor shut before she got me fired. The truth was that I had been wondering what the hell I was doing with my life. Here I was, wearing a comic strip costume, having the palms of my gloves read in a seaside resort. I was having a great time – and perhaps that should have been all that mattered – but I felt like I was losing sight of the big picture. I was meant to be racing, not mincing around.

Before I could take these psychic revelations too seriously, some joss stick incense wafted across my visor, my glove’s Velcro fastener got caught in a drape and I sent a cassette stall flying. All I could hear was the crew pissing themselves with laughter as mystic Meg chased after me, prattling on about the spirit world.

We moved on to the Pepsi Max at Pleasure Beach. Known as ‘The Big One’, it had a drop of 205 feet, a top speed of 74mph and generated 3.5G in the corners. The fairground staff treated us like royalty; they allowed us to take over the ride for an hour. A couple of dummy runs were needed to make sure that the rearward-facing camera was bolted on securely, and then I got on with a small group of enthusiastic holidaymakers.

The ride jolted, tipped and climbed vertically. Soon the Ferris wheel below was the size of a thimble. I hated heights, but decided that if The Stig wasn’t driving the rollercoaster he would be bored witless, so for his sake I pretended to fall asleep as the car began to plummet.

With my head down, all I could see through the visor was a narrow strip of the pleasure metropolis below. My stomach made its apologies and parted company with the rest of me as the car fell endlessly from the sky. Then I was hurled violently to the right as it banked hard left. I managed to maintain the same apparently nonchalant pose for the duration of the ride, never looking up but using every muscle I possessed to stay in the seat. The director was very pleased with the footage. So pleased that I went out a further four times, head down. And I got paid.

‘That’s a tough job you’ve got there, Stig,’ commented the bloke behind me.

‘Hellish,’ I replied. ‘But somebody’s got to do it.’

People were fantastically patient as they waited for us to clear off their ride. We did a bunch of photos with them and headed back into the fairground. The crew were busy filming background shots when I noticed a giant chipmunk ahead. He pounded a furry paw against his chest, Tarzan-style, then pointed at me. The Stig freaked out. Ben Joiner brought his camera to bear as I froze in my tracks, turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.

The chipmunk gave chase as The Stig scarpered over a bridge, looking frantically over his shoulder until he made good his escape. Unfortunately the presenters didn