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We fenced for a bit until he finally admitted it was Michael Schumacher. ‘We’re dressing him up as The Stig to do a lap in the Ferrari FXX. He’s the only one allowed to drive that little beauty, so it throws a big smokescreen around the whole identity thing.’ They hadn’t yet worked out how they were going to take it from there, but needed me along for some other bits and pieces.

I couldn’t wait to see the seven times F1 Champion sipping a mouldy coffee outside our decrepit cabin.

I got down to Dunsfold early for some covert filming. What happened next took my burgeoning identity crisis to another level. Schumacher had flatly refused to drive the Liana, so they wanted to film me pretending to be him pretending to be The Stig, driving the reasonably priced car.

‘Have you told Michael what we’re up to?’

‘Oh Lord, no.’

I put on Michael’s Stig suit (which had different logos on the forearms and shoulders) and brought the Suzuki to the start line. We scanned the shot list. One involved spearing off the circuit, taking out one of the cameras and probably smashing the windscreen in the process. I rubbed my hands together and got stuck into some good, old-fashioned demolition.

Half an hour later the mission was accomplished and the footage whisked away for James to edit.

I switched back into my Stig outfit and jumped into the new Lotus Evora. It was a fantastic little car. The intrusive understeer that undermined the bony Loti of the past was gone; it looked and handled like a little Ferrari.

I ran hard for about eight laps and then the runway was cleared of all traffic. Our star guest duly arrived in his private jet, blissfully unaware of the filming that had already taken place, and he and his PR people were driven across to their motorhome. He saw me walking by and turned, puzzled, to one of the producers. ‘But I thought I am the Stig now?’

The FXX was created by dipping an Enzo in a vat of dark matter. It emerged boasting 812 horsepower, super aggressive F1 carbon brakes, slick racing tyres and additional wings to glue it to the tarmac. Who better to drive it than the man who inspired the design of the F1 car on which it was based? Of the thirty built, Schumacher’s was the only one liveried completely in black and without a stripe.

I met him briefly at the start line. His skin was like velvet and he had the cocksure, carefree demeanour of someone who’d been there, won that and didn’t need to wear the T-shirt. I doubt he heard much of what I said over the high-pitched howl of the V12 being warmed up next to us, but he got the gist so we both mounted up.

I pulled my Jaguar XF alongside Alex, our producer with the bedroom eyes. ‘I can’t believe you pulled this off.’

‘Sheer luck. He’s in the UK promoting Bacardi’s Drink Responsibly road safety campaign.’

Hot engines never like being kept waiting for camera crews to organise themselves and I knew Michael would want to go. Sure enough, he began slipping the FXX towards Alex, who tried in vain to stand his ground.

With a nod to the champ I led us out. I went carefully at first so he could pick out the white lines marking the course, then built up some speed on the second lap. He stayed fairly close behind, occasionally dropping back a little and doing his own thing. By the third lap I was going as fast as the Jag could manage.

In spite of my best efforts to turn its safety systems off, the XF kept trying to stabilise itself by activating its brakes in the middle of the corners. The F1 uber champ followed me patiently as I wallowed through the turns, apparently braking in all the wrong places. His Ferrari was practically idling.

At the end of the third and final recce lap my brakes were boiling, which sent the system into a complete panic. As I sped into the penultimate corner, the ABS kicked in so I couldn’t slow down properly. The Jag cocked its leg and dropped two wheels on the dirt as I came out the other side. A shower of crud and stones flew into the air and my shoulders stiffened when I saw Michael’s own personal, immaculate two million