• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Gordon Ramsay had cooked up quite a masterpiece; nothing short of a clear dry run would beat his 1.46.38. But it didn’t stop Jamie trying, and as the snow melted he managed to put in a mega time, just a second slower than his arch-rival. As wet laps go it was the best and smoothest I ever saw.

You’d expect elite sportsmen to be good around the track, and that was largely the case, but the Lacetti wasn’t the chariot of choice for big units like Lawrence Dallaglio and Usain Bolt.

Rugby legend Dallaglio weighed in at just under 112kg, and Usain was about 95, nearly a tenth of the car’s kerb weight and almost two Lewis Hamiltons.

Dallaglio looked ridiculous in the Lacetti. His head was jammed on to the ceiling, his tree-trunk legs filled the entire footwell and his giant hands wrapped around the steering wheel like he was holding a peppermint.

He still managed a lap that was within a second of the fastest time, a storming effort given the weight handicap. I had a go at tackling Lawrence afterwards; it went badly. He lifted me off the ground by my helmet and nearly snapped my neck.

Sprinter Usain Bolt arrived at Dunsfold having set a new world record for the 200 metres in France the night before. After the press conferences he’d gone to bed at 3am, woken up a couple of hours later and got straight on a plane.

Usain is six foot five. You got a stiff neck just looking up at him. But his lilting Jamaican accent made you want to put your feet up, mix a Bacardi and fall asleep. He seemed to be waltzing through life.

He picked up the mechanics of racing in no time and was soon flying solo. He made making an effort seem effortless. He pulled in after setting a blistering time, wound down the window and gave me a sleepy smile. ‘Man, this is some scary stuff right here. It’s stressful out there.’

‘You don’t look massively stressed,’ I said. ‘You’re doing really well.’

We pulled him out of the car for a water break and I noticed his shoelace was undone. Later on they played a clip of him winning a gold medal in the 100 metres and his laces were undone then as well. Talk about laid back.

I made sure he tied it securely and we sent him out. You only have to get your laces wrapped around the throttle pedal once to realise it’s not a good idea.

Usain pulled every ounce of speed out of the car and finished off with his signature pose, pointing skywards with his hands like he was firing an arrow. Had it not been for his weight I’m sure he would have edged Gordon Ramsay out of first place. That honour was claimed by Simon Cowell on his second visit. He surprised himself by topping the times and gave Clarkson a bashing in the interview as they took turns in ribbing one another.

When it came to pure passion, no one could touch the space cowboy known as Jamiroquai. ‘Jay’ was also a walking supercar encyclopaedia. He’d set the fastest time in the Suzuki on his previous visit, under the guidance of the Black Stig. I’d always felt a bit smug about tearing a second off Jay’s time with four of ‘my’ celebs.

Wherever Jay went after that, people ribbed him about his time being beaten, and now he wanted to put things right. The pressure was on, but he was still carrying a cheeky grin. He arrived wearing some nifty Alpinestars racing boots. I could tell from his handshake that he was pumped.

‘Up for it today?’ I grinned beneath my helmet.

‘Are you kidding? This is WAR, man!’

I knew Jay was wild from a commercial I did with him for an EA Sports game called Need for Speed. I was dressed as a State Trooper and thrashing an Eighties Chevy police cruiser, a big mama, around a track. Jay slipped into the role of mad, ‘catch me if you can’, tearaway speed junkie with remarkable ease. He pulled alongside my car at 120mph in a pimped-out Nissan GTR, shot me the stiff finger, shouted ‘Fuck you, Pig,’ and roared off cackling with laughter.

As we sat in the Chevy Lacetti, I built Jay up from scratch like he’d never seen the track or driven the car before. I wanted to give him his very best shot.