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I felt myself bristling. My patch may have stunk of cabbage, but it was still my patch. Sure it wasn’t Fiorano, but the bumps, curves and cambered braking areas were ideal for assessing vehicle dynamics.

‘I hear that you’re racing bikes now?’

His eyes lit up. ‘Well, I’ve competed in one race of the German National Championship.’

‘So you’re keeping pretty busy?’

He nodded. ‘I have also rediscovered my passion for karting … And you … what do you do?’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘this and that. I’m racing in GT, checking out some NASCAR. I was pretending to be James Bond last year, and today I’m pretending to be you.’

I admired the way that Schumacher operated within his own centre of gravity. He had huge inner confidence, of course, but I saw straight through the talk of bikes and karts. Like all racing drivers, he lived for the contest. We were interrupted by his cue to hit the stage. He reached for his helmet. ‘How long have you been doing this?’

‘For a few years …’

‘There have been many of you, yes?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure how much they’ve told you …’ It was weird:even talking with my fellow Stig, the greatest F1 champion of all time, about to be revealed on TV, I still felt uncomfortable giving anything away.

He shook my hand as he left. ‘Hope to see you later.’ Then, thinking about it: ‘Maybe not though?’

I wished him luck and went to find a monitor. He kept everyone on tenterhooks for a moment, then removed The Stig’s helmet. The audience loved it. Cool as a cucumber, he exchanged banter with Clarkson, who’d decked himself out in a startling orange shirt.

‘And do you find it a bit boring,’ Jezza rolled his eyes, ‘when the same person endlessly wins all the time?’

Michael responded with the kind of smile that both charmed the pants off the audience and made it clear that he didn’t find that boring at all.

They kept the ‘reasonably priced car’ sequence for last, once he had vacated the premises in his private jet.

The Stig turned over the engine with the Liana in first, so it lurched forward and stopped. Then he stalled, restarted the motor and couldn’t find the gears.

Cogs shrieking, he nudged the stick into reverse as it started crawling forwards. Once in second, he kangaroo-hopped down the road like a teenager on his first driving lesson.

The first corner approached and he skidded straight at the camera crew, half spun on the grass, made a late turn and dribbled away at 10mph towards Chicago.

The Liana understeered straight on, front wheels skidding, then careered off the track at about 50mph. Iain pegged it away, arms waving, as his camera smashed the windscreen, dented the roof and flew high into the air.

They didn’t show the bit when I was texting on a mobile phone as I sped towards the Hammerhead chicane, but cut to me heading down the wrong side of the tyre wall and finally getting lost somewhere in Surrey.

Back in the studio, Jezza and Hammo grappled for a moment with the possibility that Schumacher wasn’t The Stig after all. Until the credits rolled, I wondered whether I had just filmed my own epitaph. I half expected Clarkson to announce in ringing tones, ‘Some say The Stig’s forgotten how to drive, so we’ve had to get a new one …’

‘Compliments on your shitness out there, Stig,’ James said. ‘There’s some very funny stuff here.’ High praise, given the Brummy editor’s exacting standards.

Chapter 36

Give my Regards to Dunsfold

Luck had always been on my side when it came to juggling my Top Gear commitments, but having been asked to attend the National TV Awards to collect our prize for most popular factual programme, I had to switch at the last minute to extra rehearsals for the live show. There were plenty of willing stand-ins but fastest off the mark was Grant. ‘Your loss, my gain,’ he joshed as he rushed off to the red carpet. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but I clung onto my helmet bag a little too tightly before passing it to him.

I spent the night perfecting a 720-degree lateral spin in a converted London Taxi whilst a suitably attired Grant collected the gong and snuck off