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‘Thanks, Jim.’

I had been a passenger in the Liana for so long that I’d almost forgotten how to drive it. My first lap was average; I knew it, and Jim’s expression confirmed it. He looked genuinely worried for me. Not a good sign.

I pushed harder and remembered how much you had to throw a front-wheel-driven roller pig into the corners. At the end of the straight into Bacharach I barely kissed the brakes. The tail lurched sideways and I put down 100 per cent throttle long before the corner.

I cut a hefty chunk off the inside of the bend, dropped two wheels on to the grass on the way out and carried a shedload of speed towards the final turn. I dabbed the brake in third and hurled it in, slid wide, launched into the air over the verge and crashed on to the wheel rims as I landed.

Jim wouldn’t confirm the time, but I knew I had to find more.

‘Can we switch cars? I think this one is a dog.’

‘OK, sure. Ugh, no actually, we’ve only got one today.’

I stared at him for a moment, trying not to show my frustration. Grant was talking into the radio. Wilman had some words of encouragement for me, so Grant pointed the speaker in my direction. ‘Tell him to think of Damon Hill’s quali lap from the ’97 Budapest GP,’ said Wilman. ‘One mighty lap at the eleventh hour is all it takes.’ Very encouraging.

‘No worries. Let me just cool the engine and give it another go.’

I could really taste the adrenalin now; it had taken its sweet time coming. I waited on the line and pictured the lap in my mind, without squashing the tyres under braking, letting it flow. I opened my eyes and released from the start line with no wheelspin. I braked late for the first corner and released them early. I turned and took the tighter, ‘fast in, fast out’ racing line. The front barely carried the extra speed.

I straight-lined the Follow Through with minimal steering to scrub as little speed as possible. I nearly lost it into Bacharach but it came good, howled through there, turned into the final corner and flew across the line with both wheels in the gully. I had no more.

Jim was nodding as I drove by and his lips read, ‘Yeah, baby.’ Stiggy still had it. A few hours later I sat on the sofa to have Jeremy deliver my lap time. He usually tortured his guests by reading it one number at a time. The Stig didn’t stand for that kind of nonsense and would never have waited for applause. As Jeremy started telling the audience my time, I just got up and walked out.

For once I’d caught Jeremy off guard, but he rather liked that. I’d beaten Mansell’s time by two tenths of a second.

Chapter 19

Driving Blind

Gordon Ramsay was awesome, even more intense and faster talking than on TV, so I had to shift up a gear to keep with him. He was just a big kid really, and one of the few who swore less when he was driving. Only five times a lap.

He bit his lip and stuck in an aggressive but flowing circuit that put him at the top of the board. The balls-out approach doesn’t usually work on the reasonably priced car, but he was a natural. He was so excited that he let me blat his Ferrari around the track with his sous-chef riding alongside. He subsequently claimed that I ‘fucked his clutch’, but you know what, Gordon? I fucking didn’t.

Track conditions for the guests varied from hot to not-so-hot, from wet to mildly moist, and that was just the state of the tarmac. When Jamie Oliver came down, Brian the Studio Director took me to one side. ‘He really wants to do well. He’s a lovely boy; make sure he does a good time, won’t you?’

Meeting the Naked One was like catching up with an old mate from school – no airs or graces, just an easy-going dude. He was genuinely pleased to meet us all. Then he saw the track.

‘Bollocks, what do you call this, then?’

The whole airfield was covered by three inches of snow. That morning I’d done a power lap in the new Jaguar XKR that was ten seconds slower than normal. At one point it was so thick that when I drove across it at speed, the car was