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The location was RAF Bentwaters in Suffolk, home to the RAF’s Bomber Command during the Second World War, then used by the American Air Force for keeping an eye on the Russians. The concrete runways were a little ancient but smooth enough to drive on.

I negotiated a day for rehearsals, followed by a day for filming. That way we could figure out if this thing was remotely possible before humiliating ourselves on national television.

Within half an hour of arriving at Bentwaters, my eyeballs were drying in their sockets from the continuous crosswind, and Tim’s expression was even darker than usual.

His parachute was a ‘Swoop’ canopy which could soar like a paraglider. As he approached the ground he would dive to build up speed, turn and slingshot forwards. It would be a bit like falling out of a swing – except he’d be travelling at 130mph just a few feet from the deck.

‘What about this wind?’ I asked. ‘Can you jump in this?’ ‘If the plane can take off, I can jump. Landing could be tricky, but we won’t know until we try.’

Fordy the cameraman, Tim’s partner in the sky, reminded me of Captain Scarlet, right down to the dimpled chin. He chewed gum and smiled at us as if he was escorting a pair of loonies on a day out from the Cuckoo’s Nest.

We pinged a section of airfield where the main runway was met by another we used for parking the emergency vehicles. It gave me a wider run-up and the converging strips marked a clear X that provided a visible reference at high altitude.

In theory, the grass on either side of it would offer a marginally softer bounce if things went wrong, but realistically, splatting the grass at 130mph wouldn’t change the texture of the human jam Tim would be spreading.

We loaded him up with his harness and padded his arms and knees. I softened the landing zone with thick blankets and foam and wound the passenger seat fully forward to give him space. For my own protection, I donned the obligatory Ray Bans.

Tim and Fordy joshed around as they climbed into the Cessna. I cranked up the air con as they took off and backed the car into position. After a few minutes I spotted the ruffled profile of a yellow parachute. It was the first time I’d seen one of these chutes deploying, and for a horrible moment it looked like it might not open. Time to switch on. The countdown began. Tim tacked back and forth until he hit 800 feet. He’d rotate at that point and head for the ground like a Kamikaze pilot on his last hurrah, then swoop alongside the car for a couple of hundred feet before touching down.

At least, that was the plan.

Without warning, Tim spiralled into a turn in front of me. I planted the throttle as he roared overhead at an incredible rate of knots. His speed dropped off within seconds and he landed as I drove past him.

‘We’ll have to do better than that, Benny boy,’ he laughed.

I decided I’d have to start in front of him; there was no other way I could match his speed.

Tim stowed his chute. ‘Let’s try the next one for real; we might as well get a feel for it.’

I craned my neck around the headrest as Tim dived into his turn and flew towards me in a blur of speed. As our paths collided I fought the urge to veer out of his way.

‘Gotta keep it straight, Ben,’ he said when he’d kissed the concrete.

‘I know,’ I said sheepishly. ‘It just feels like I’m trying to kill you.’

‘Sod it, that’s my problem. Just stick the wagon under me whatever.’

We managed three more jumps and sorted the positioning of the Merc relative to Tim’s swoop. The big problem was the crosswind. Its strength and direction were changing constantly, which played havoc with his landing distance and speed.

The closest we got was when a gust blew him sideways and his feet nearly caught the inside of the windscreen.

I called Wiseman before the close of play to call off the shoot.

‘Don’t worry. If you can’t do it, you can’t do it. The crew’s already left. We might as well film whatever you guys get up to tomorrow.’

Another mate of ours arrived to