• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

I was chatting with the crew in the lay-by at the top of the hill when I clocked a goliath of a man stepping off his racing bike on the other side of the road. He looked pissed and he was scowling in our direction.

He was at least six five and 220 pounds, and he was solid. Once the traffic cleared he strode purposefully across the road. He wore a mankini, like Borat’s, only his was high-vis yellow over black leggings. He was a terrifying sight. Jeremy copped it first.

‘Who is driving the fucking Mercedes?’

This was the first occasion I’d seen Jeremy lost for words. And as he turned to face him, he appeared to have shrunk at least six inches.

‘Is it you, huh? You’re driving this car like a fucking idiot?’

‘No, it’s not me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

It was a good opener, but Mankini wasn’t to be put off that easily.

‘This car is going up and down like stupid. Who is the driver?’

‘I don’t know, but I think he went that way …’ Jezza pointed randomly back down the mountain. Good work, mate; just don’t start pointing in my direction.

Mankini was livid at being denied a righteous kill. He lectured us on the sanctity of two-wheeled travel, yelled, ‘Fuck all of you,’ and loped back to his nut-hugging Lycra buddies.

Our visit to Switzerland was not entirely unwelcome. Brian Klein, TG’s studio director, was helming Clarkson’s DVD and led our convoy of supercars to another location at the base of the mountain. As Brian climbed out of the Aston Martin DBS, the female proprietor of a local restaurant came running out and refused to let go of his arm.

Brian was wearing an urban cowboy ensemble, with pointy boots, bleached jeans and a stripy top over his well matured physique. After we ordered some food and the rest of the proprietor’s family had been assembled, the cause of the commotion became clear.

‘She thinks I’m Timothy Dalton.’ Brian slipped on some sunglasses, adding to his mystique.

He had his photo taken with the extended family Robinson and signed autographs whilst the rest of us chewed down the kind of pasta pesto the Romans would have used as building mortar.

We flew to Malaga in Spain and stayed at the opulent Ascari Resort. The circuit nestled inside a range of rugged mountains dotted with sparse Andalusian foliage. It was designed by the owner and my former team boss, Klaas Zwart, and replicated twenty-six of the most challenging corners from Grand Prix venues like Spa and Zandvoort. With sun all year round, it was the perfect setting to assess the true performance of three of the latest road cars: a BMW M3, an Audi RS4 and a Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG.

As I walked down the pit lane I passed a familiar shape peering from underneath the metal shutters to one of the garages. I stared longingly at the aggressive dive planes covering the wheel arches of Ascari’s Le Mans racing prototype. It sent me back to the time I drove it around Le Mans. The desire to race stung like a wasp, and it was all I could do to drag my focus back to the day’s objectives.

Clarkson was hunched over his laptop, sucking on a Marlboro as he rocked back in deep contemplation of the script he’d been working on with TG’s other wordsmith, Richard Porter. Jeremy was the architectural powerhouse behind all his work, so I left him to it. I needed to make a decision that would affect the rest of my day: Cappuccino or Americano.

The Ascari lair with its marble floors, manicured gardens, ‘Cortijo’ clubhouse, swimming pool and sleeping hammocks compared very favourably to the spit and sawdust of Dunsfold. The crew enjoyed it so much that we lobbied Wilman to shoot the whole series out there. Predictably enough, he refused to ‘become a shareholder in EasyJet’.

Having satiated myself at the breakfast buffet I moved back towards the presenters, who were embroiled in a mock debate about their cars in a build-up to filming their comments.

Clarkson turned to me. ‘Have you driven it?’

‘What’s that?’

‘The Merc.’

‘Not yet.’

‘You’ll love it. It’s got loads more power than the others; it’s insane.’ Big