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I gingerly suggested that Nigel braked a bit later at the penultimate turn. Telling a World Champion to brake later was … uncomfortable. He duly did and hooked the car in with bullish gusto, sending up the familiar dust clouds on the apex and exit of the corner. It was his fastest lap of all – 1.44.6.

Nigel launched several equally determined attempts, then wound down the window. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no more.’

What an operator. He put everyone around him on tiptoe, delivered a mega performance and wore his heart on his sleeve. He was the most competitive person I’d ever met. You could hear it in his voice, even when he was just talking about his golf handicap.

‘Il Leone’, as the Ferrari fans called him, had taken a major bite out of the track record to mark the retirement of the faithful Suzuki Liana. She was knackered. The front wheel had been jettisoned three times, with Lionel Richie, footballer Ian Wright and actor Trevor Eve. We blew innumerable clutches (twice in one day with David Soul), cracked the gearbox casing, snapped the gear selector, broke the suspension and dented the panels.

I hoped for a more durable replacement to kick off Series 8. Instead I was handed the keys to a 119bhp Chevrolet Lacetti. It had the worst gear-box money could buy and the paintwork matched the Liana’s drab grey/blue.

Jeremy invited seven mad celebs to come along on the same day and set some times. He decided it would be a great idea to host a picnic during lapping, on the verge at the last corner. There was no point arguing; I had my work cut out.

James Hewitt, the love rat, arrived first and canoodled a time, then Alan Davies gurned a lap. Trevor Eve, with his crushing handshake, managed to destroy a clutch before lunchtime, but he was fastest. Rick Wakeman climbed aboard and casually remarked that he had suffered several heart attacks in the past.

‘Are you sure you should be doing this?’

‘What do you think, Stig?’

‘I think you’re mad, but it’s your call.’

Off we went.

Jeremy and Hammo were getting stuck into jam tarts and tea whilst I did my best to gather up Jimmy Carr. Rock Star Justin Hawkins joined the mêlée and flat-footed it everywhere with a perma-grin. After that he joined Clarkson in song, with Wakeman tapping out a tune on an electric keyboard. I spent the whole afternoon behind the mask, wondering why no one else found the situation utterly surreal.

Les Ferdinand arrived last. He was a pro footballer, so he’d probably seen a few sights in his time. He spotted the picnic and stopped 50 metres short of it, looking lost. Then he twigged that he was in the right place but it was too late to turn around. His face was a picture. Les narrowly lost out to Trevor Eve and legged it as soon as Jeremy had read out his time.

Coaching the celebs was a hoot. I cried with laughter being driven by Stavros, aka Harry Enfield, and will never forget hearing Joanna Lumley swear. I behaved myself … most of the time.

The following week I was looking forward to some one-on-one with Gordon Ramsay when, without warning, the Suzuki Liana was wheeled out and I was invited to set a time.

The Stig was hardly going to refuse the challenge. As for me, although both car and track were familiar, there was a distinct sense of pressure. Years of telling other people to drive faster and brake later would come back to haunt me if, for any reason, I failed to beat Nigel Mansell’s rather fast time.

Wilman had a mischievous look in his eye that morning. He was loving my moment in the dock; it reminded me of the first day I drove for him. Jim and Grant were wringing their hands with delight and I knew that factors like weight differential, hot weather and tyre wear wouldn’t wash. It was put up or shut up.

The Liana was dreadful to drive because it was so roly-poly and gutless. The incessant understeer made it hard to show any flair or balls. Pressing the brakes was like standing on a dead fish. After driving a supercar it was as exciting as filing a tax return.

I climbed aboard the old girl and dragged her to the start line.

‘Right