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‘Ah, thanks …’

‘We’re in the middle of rehearsals at the moment. The first show’s tonight. Go and ’ave a look if you like.’ He pointed towards the stage.

A line of Le Mans cars waited their turn in the spotlight, escorted by some female racing drivers. The curtain whipped back as a familiar voice boomed through the PA system: ‘… and you see that’s what we love about Le Mans: it’s basically men trying to kill themselves at 200mph. But now it’s even better. There’s girls …’ The voice was growing hoarse.

There was no mistaking this guy. One hand held the mic, the other wafted around in the air as he strode back and forth, pointing occasionally and cocking his head in exaggerated thought. The abundance of pubic curls gathering snow at the summit of this monster confirmed it was none other than Jeremy Clarkson, as much a household name to me as Maggie Thatcher, Heinz Baked Beans and Colonel Gaddafi.

Racer Girl Number 1 duly introduced herself, treating the empty auditorium to a sizeable slice of her life history, thanking her wonderful sponsors, the amazing team, her dynamite engine and was in full stride until—

‘No, no, no … Get off. GET OFF. We don’t want to hear all that bloody nonsense.’ Racer Girl’s Colgate smile evaporated. ‘The people coming here tonight haven’t paid thirty quid to listen to a sodding commercial! Off you go.’

The cars moved sheepishly offstage. Mobile phones buzzed, agents were bleated to. ‘Who does he think he is, talking to me like that?’

This was the rehearsal for the MPH Show, now billed as Top Gear Live, a heady mixture of supercars, mega-stunts and talking heads in front of an audience of 4,000 petrolheads. Andy had just told me he wanted some ‘precision driving, real close shave stuff’.

Paul explained that I would be driving head to head against Tiff Need-ell for a timed run around a ‘figure 8 course’ in a supercharged 600 horsepower Jaguar XKR. Tiff was a former Top Gear presenter who moved on to host a rival programme called Fifth Gear. Known as ‘stiff needle’ to the lady fans, he was the snake-hipped king of burning rubber and had thrashed more supercars than I could dream of. He’d driven in Formula 1 back in the Eighties and famously biffed Nigel Mansell into the wall during a Touring Car race.

I only had one shot at practice before the show went live, so I suited up and waited behind the curtains. With the visor down I could barely see my own feet in the dimmed stage lighting and could hear little better. Tiff peered at me through his pair of squints, knocked on the helmet and shouted, ‘Is that Perry in there?’

I shook my head.

Tiff hopped in the Jag and drifted sensationally sideways around the figure 8, one-handed, whilst giving a running commentary in a voice that resembled a parrot on amphetamines.

The talking heads on stage blabbed away. Paul appeared at my side and, at some unknown cue, tapped my shoulder and hissed, ‘STIG … Go!’

I ambled out into the arena and felt a rush of nerves. There suddenly seemed to be a lot of people watching. I had raced in front of 100,000 people, but this was far more personal. I felt like Hamlet. I walked the long walk to the Jag, sank into it and searched in pitch darkness for the ignition key. By the time I got the engine running the silence on stage was deafening.

‘Yes, come on you, go!’ Clarkson urged helpfully.

I dropped the hammer and the barbaric supercharged motor belted me forward. Dim lighting shone over two circular platforms that marked out the figure 8 course. I could only guess at the distance to the black curtains concealing the concrete perimeter.

I used a short oval technique, braked on the diagonal and waited for the front tyres to stop skidding across the slick metal panels. Then I turned hard and accelerated. The automatic box spun the wheels into a high gear towards the next platform.

I was playing blindfold baseball in a china shop, convinced I would slam into something at any moment and look a complete numpty. I only saw the platforms moments before missing