by Ben Collins
‘No, not at all.’
I think he was happy to be heading for the relative comfort of Jeremy’s leather sofa.
David Walliams was another kettle of fish. As a Little Britain fan I thought, wrongly, that I knew all about him. First off, he is a big lad. Just getting a helmet to fit and curling him into the Liana wasn’t easy.
We didn’t really seem to hit it off. Maybe he was nervous, or I wasn’t getting the message across very well. Or perhaps he was suffering the after-effects of a bad vindaloo. But I didn’t give up on him.
Walliams put the hammer down, but whereas Jimmy Carr would disappear off the circuit without a prayer of making the corner, this lad would nearly make it, then just lose it at the last moment. It was agonising to watch; he was so close to getting it right, but his excursions were denting his confidence.
I tried to help him fight fire with fire by recommending that he brake even later for the corners where he was spinning; I thought it would force him to brake harder and therefore make the corner.
The camera crew were set up ten metres to one side to capture him going across the line. I stood between them and the final corner.
Walliams piled into the second to last bend, braked late and skidded sideways and on to the verge, kicking up a plume of dust as he regained the track. Beautiful. I dared to think that my plan had worked.
Then he completely missed the turning-in point for the final corner. He was going way too fast and heading straight across the grass toward us.
He just needed to lift off the accelerator. I jogged backwards as he closed in and tried explaining this with hand signals.
The brain can only process so much new information. Once it reaches overload in a crisis situation, logic leaves the building. In this scenario, Walliams wanted to brake and avoid killing us, but his body was too scared to move its own foot. In fact, all the time he was thinking about braking, his foot was pushing harder on the accelerator, a common cause of accidents on the road.
Within seconds the Liana had chewed up the grass run-off and we were out of time.
With a wire fence behind us and a wide-eyed Walliams inbound, I turned to Wiseman and shouted ‘RUN’. Jim grabbed the soundman, I yanked the camera operator and we darted for cover.
The Liana lurched over the grass rise, all four wheels left the ground, and it landed roughly where I’d been standing. The tyre marks were just an inch wide of the tripod.
Wiseman burst out laughing, apparently entertained by my wildly inventive sign language.
The car came to a rest 40 metres past us. I caught my breath and opened his door. ‘It’s OK – everyone’s OK. Are you all right, David?’
His belts were already off and he climbed out of the car looking deeply shocked. It was his final lap anyway so we aimed David in the direction of the tea urn and called it a day.
* * *
The cars took a royal pounding over the years. They were invariably launched into the air over the verge at the final corner, landed on the wheel rims and then bounced through the gravel gully. If you weren’t using the gully you weren’t trying hard enough. We had to keep a watchful eye on the hubs and the suspension.
When Lionel Richie was in the driving seat we heard a strange clanking noise at the first corner. I could just make out his car veering on to the grass. As he hit the brakes, the front wheel fell off, stayed upright and then overtook him. The Liana slumped on to its brake disc, lost all front grip and scraped along the tarmac in a shower of sparks.
There was mild panic at our HQ. The Pop God who had fronted over 100 million records appeared to be bent on giving us the Top Gear version of ‘Dancing on the Ceiling’.
Jim and I hurtled into the ambulance with the rescue crew, with visions of Lionel’s ‘people’ suing us into oblivion if his French tickler moustache was even fractionally out of shape.
The great man was standing in the middle of the field he had so recently ploughed, his leather jacket still immaculate, staring, mystified, at a car he could buy with his loose change. To our relief, he started to laugh. ‘The damn wheel fell off!’ We swapped him into the spare Liana and he squeezed out a great time – given that he only used third gear. He had serious issues adjusting to the ‘stick shift’.
Lionel may only have driven automatics but he had a major advantage over one guest. Johnny Vegas had yet to pass his driving test. After a few laps I noticed that he was making a silky smooth transition from the brakes to the power, so I had a look in the footwell.
I told him that he was left-foot braking, a technique used by rally and Formula 1 drivers; rather an advanced style for a beginner.
‘I’m doin’ whaat? Sorry, maaate …’ He had no idea what he was doing.
I handed the husky-voiced northerner back to his BSM driving instructor and thought, good luck mate. His test was booked the following month.
After five seasons we had a list of seriously fast times set by the boys from the Big Screen. It fell on one slip of a girl to put them all in their place.
Ellen MacArthur listened intently to every instruction, nodded calmly and said, ‘Right’, or ‘OK’. She wasn’t a talker; she just did it. Her expression at breakneck speed was as serene as it must have been when she was watering plants.
It was hard to imagine this tiny, rose-cheeked beauty as a record-breaking loon, circumnavigating the globe single-handed on a boat the size of Lionel Richie’s limo.
I asked if she had ever been afraid. She recalled a night in the Southern Ocean when her little trimaran was skimming down waves the size of Alpine valleys at 30 knots, and she had to just rely on the sureness of her touch to prevent it from capsizing. A flat stretch of tarmac couldn’t pose much danger after an experience of that magnitude.
Ellen’s innate bravery was compounded by the fact that she weighed so little, which assisted the Liana’s speed in a straight line. She shot to the top of the board, just seven tenths of a second slower than the Black Stig’s benchmark of 1.46.0. Which may have prompted Grant Wardrop’s next question, posed to me from behind his mirrored aviators. ‘Anyway, what time have you done in the Liana?
He was new to the TG production team, but he had a point. I’d never set one.
We’d already hosted two Formula 1 drivers. Damon Hill came along for a laugh, and Aussie star Mark Webber set a sensational time in the rain. Mark recognised me immediately from our Formula 3 days, apparently from the way I walked, so I made him swear not to tell anyone.
Our next guest was World Champion Nigel Mansell.
As he made his way down the tarmac to join us, he grew increasingly agitated. By the time he reached the car, the producer seemed to have his hands full. I walked away to relieve some of the pressure.
Nigel wasn’t happy. ‘I don’t know about this. No one told me I’d be driving this thing for a lap time … Ooh no, no, no …’ He prowled around the Liana, kicking its tyres.
No one dared say it, but why else was he carrying his personal racing helmet?
Producer: ‘Right. Well … um … you don’t have to drive it, obviously … but we were really hoping you could … do a few laps before the interview …’
Uncomfortable silence.
I decided it was time to break the ice.
‘Hi, Nigel, it’s really great to meet you. This car is shit …’
Nigel: ‘You’re telling me.’
‘… but it’s quite fun to drive …’
No comment.
Me: ‘Have you been busy?’
Nigel: ‘Yeah, I’ve been racing in the new Grand Prix Masters series. I won the last race at Kyalami, actually.’ He leant closer. ‘In one of the fast corners I was 14kph faster than Jan Lammers.’
Me: ‘Awesome.’
Some of the tension dissipated, but we weren’t out of the woods. Our Nige made a final inspection of the shitbox, then mumbled something that sounded vaguely conciliatory and put on his familiar Union Jack racing helmet. We were on.
I was a big fan of Mansell in
F1 mode. Even Senna and Schumacher had no answer to his attacking style when he was on one, like when he overtook Gerhard Berger around the outside of the sweeping last corner at the 1990 Mexico Grand Prix.
Mansell’s physical strength was apparent in shoulders that extended from his ear lobes. During the active suspension era of F1 he was the only driver physically capable of coping with the G-forces. It was rumoured that he clenched his teeth so hard during one qualifying session that it shattered a molar. In the Liana, with no grip to manhandle, I reckoned that approach might slow him down.
Nigel didn’t want to be driven, so I hopped in the passenger seat and directed him around a lap of the track to show him the lines. He sparked up on the second lap; I was impressed by how quickly he’d adapted to the car. He was committed every inch of the way.
I left Nigel and joined a giddy Jim Wiseman.
‘How was he?’
‘He’s bloody good, obviously. This could be interesting; he’s taking it seriously.’
Nigel dumped the clutch and wheelspun away. The car screeched and groaned from one turn to the next. He completed the lap by neatly slicing the final corner, the rear kicking slightly wide and dropping a wheel into the gravel. It looked precise, tidy and angry. It was also a new record. A high 1.45 on his opening lap.
Jim ran over. Nigel’s eyes were round and unblinking, his nostrils flared. It was a look I knew very well. The window slid down and the voice of Jim’s boyhood hero spoke to him from behind the helmet he had followed for fifteen years on TV. ‘What’s me time on that one?’
Jim looked apologetic. ‘We can’t tell you the times until the interview.’
‘Bollocks to that, mate,’ Nige said. ‘Tell me my bloody time.’
‘Um … I can tell you if your times are getting faster or slower, but not the actual time. Sorry …’
The window wound up again.
Nigel drove the Liana, twitching with complaint, to the edge of its physical boundaries and then beyond. But the car looked slow in the straights. Jim let me swap it for the spare.
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 then, Stiggy,’ Jim said, ‘No pressure. But … it would be great telly if you beat Mansell.’
‘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 picked up and f lung ten metres in the other direction.