I'm on TV! (Showbiz SI)

Dunsfold Aerodrome Surrey, UK. July 2008.

[Under normal circumstances, I'm usually quite good at keeping my intrinsic carnal cravings caged.

Yet, sat behind the wheel of the Aston Martin DB9, I felt less like the 007 that shoots bad guys, and more like the 007 who sleeps with anything that has even the slightest pulse. 

Move over James Bond, because here comes James Fondle.

Outside I couldn't keep my eyes off it, and inside I must have caressed every leather, wood, and metal surface within reach of my grubby fingers. And when I put my foot down…

"Bloody Norah!" James May could yell all he wanted from the passenger side seat. The pedal hitting just the right spot on the metal sent the car not just purring, but absolutely yowling in pleasure as the engine churned on all cylinders.

 "12.7 seconds!" The man in the white coat waving the chequered flag called out over the radio as I blitzed past him after completing a quarter mile.

"I think I know who wins the flash factor." Despite Jeremy Clarkson's ludicrous set of wheels.

Conventional science calls it a misattribution, but I know my own perversions well enough to determine beyond a shadow of a doubt there is, in fact, an unassailable correlation between fear and arousal. That's why taboo was a thing, that's why degenerates in ten years would be throwing themselves at the feet of statuesque women begging to be stepped on, and that's why I, in my way, have risked my career in the past by subjecting myself to the less than tender mercy of cougars. And may the gods strike me down should I ever lament that.

Riding a bike at full tilt is about as frightful as it gets. "Aaaah!" The usually eloquent Hammond didn't quite have the words anymore.

 No seatbelts, no airbags, only a helmet to ensure that when I suffer my mandatory motorcycle crash, at least my head and face would remain pristine for the open casket, even if the rest of my body was shredded into a mangled mess. 

"12.9 seconds!" Another quarter mile, another time reading. It was slower, but damned if it didn't feel twice as fast. 

Between the sheer terror angrily rumbling between my legs and the pulsing mini-vibrator juddering behind me, it couldn't be more unsafe to say that, "Oh, yeah. This has the fizz factor for sure." The Harley Davidson Fatboy had given me a fat one. 

But when it came to the fast factor, "8 seconds, dead!" I found Clarkson's clunker had me arriving at the finish line rather prematurely. 

"Feel the speeed!" Though, to be fair to the other two, we did have a bit of a rolling start.

Before we'd traipsed off on our merry quarter mile jaunts and after Clarkson had revealed what was under his tarp, it became very clear to me that Clarkson wasn't just here to take the piss, but the entire urology department out of me.

"Hammond's ill-informed decision to pander to your American qualities can be forgiven as you insist on spending time across the pond. And while James had the right of it, Wales is a little too close to England for Aston to be considered exotic. Therefore, what could possibly be more foreign - in the motoring sense - than Sweden?" 

"If you had brought out the Koeniggssisgsgeg," I was pretty sure I was still missing a few Ss and Gs in there somewhere, "I might've believed you. But the only badge I see right now is IKEA."

"Be careful." The log hidden under his sheet turned out to be a rolled-up rug. I, being the only one among the group young enough to not induce spontaneous arthritis in my joints, was forced to lug down the road towards a tall fence that hid a small section of the aerodrome out of view. "She may look unimpressive, but as soon as you see what's under the hood, you'll very quickly change your tune, young Bas. Because you see," we rounded the fence, "we've outfitted it with a rather spectacular engine." 

That's when the whirring began. May's car had four rolling wheels, Hammond's was half of that with two, and as the blades spun hard enough to create a localised hurricane, Clarkson introduced me to his version of a unicycle. 

"So, this is how we get the mat moving?"

"Poweeeer! Roll that carpet out on the floor of the cabin and let me introduce you to the Agusta 109 helicopter powered flying floorcloth." 

His face warped, my hair flopped, we dressed the chopper fuselage with the mat, and sat on it. Magically transforming the Italian feat of engineering into a Swedish prank. 

CGI combined with VFX though they were, I'd flown on brooms, dragons, and hippogriffs. However, it now seemed the crew at Top Gear had graciously prepared a magic carpet ride for me. "There's taking the mickey, and then there's taking me all the way to Disneyland."

If he at any point had referred to me as Jasmine, I would've stopped the shoot. 

At least Tropic Thunder would get some solid advertising off this.]

– 

With cheers and applause that drowned out the deafening dance of the rotors, Jeremy Clarkson raucously invited me on stage as the film ended. "Ladies and gentlemen please welcome to the stage the wizard from Wales, Britain's most valuable entertainment export, and the face that graces not just every magazine from here to Timbuktu, but the walls of each one of your daughter's bedroom walls. Bas Rhys!"

A hop, skip, and a jump later, I escaped the clutches of the crowd and clasped hands with Jeremy, who heartily thumped my back. He was trying to greet me properly, but I struggled to hear him over the screaming fans.

Displaying a lack of reservation reserved for passing royalty, they sent my crown jewels rattling to the rafters. If they were responding to my presence like this, I had to reciprocate in kind. I cupped my palm and wafted a queenly wiggle of my wrist to the wave of watchers before Clarkson finally wrestled me onto my car seat shaped throne.

"You know, we tend to only get that level of excitement on the rare occasions an F1 driver comes to town." Clarkson was only able to start the interview once the onlookers were made to simmer down.

"How nice of you, Jeremy. But I say this with all humility: I'm much more famous." Jeremy laughed, and so did the audience. Luckily for me, narcissism was funny when they think you feign it. 

Not me though. I meant it.

"Potter's done you well, then. But it's not the only film franchise you're a part of. This is a car program so obviously we have to talk about your stint as the drift king in Tokyo Drift." Picked up another monarchic moniker. "I hadn't believed that you'd done a good portion of the driving yourself - learning at the feet of Japanese motoring legend Keiichi Tsuchiya, as well as Rhys Millen."

"The majority of the more technical driving was done by the real drivers. I'm barely an amateur in comparison. But I'm proud that every time the cars were flipped over or in danger of colliding with someone, I'm the one who's driving." 

"Then we have you to blame for all the riced out Hondas littering the streets these last two years." Commercial success just meant that the earned cult status of the movie just had more members. "Is it true, by the way, that you got the job by taking the director on a surprise joyride?"

"Yes, but in my defence, only the screenwriter vomited." Verbal diarrhoea may be something I suffer from, but shit, if it's true, it's true.

"I wonder if we'll share the same reaction. How would everyone like to see how Bas did as our star in a reasonably priced car?"

–

After guiding me through the course, the Stig (no, I won't share his real name or what he sounds like) was done, and it was now my turn to figure out the turns for myself. ["Where the hell is the sat nav in this thing?"] God save me and, more importantly, the camera crew.

The high vis jackets just meant I'd have an easier time aiming for 'em.

Red. Yellow. Green. "And he's off the line!" Clarkson's voiceover made the squeaky spinning of the Chevrolet Lacetti's wheels sound far more action packed than it was. "Hot start, he's navigated the first turn well," the camera switched angles to catch my drive-by better, "here he is at Chicago, and - he's gone off-!"

["Oh, fuck! Was that the turn?"] I wasn't entirely joking about sat nav as I zoomed down a long straight I'd never driven on before, but somehow thought was the right way to go. Only way I'd made it across the last few times was because I had someone in the passenger seat.

The clip clicked off. "There's only a handful of corners on the entire track. How is it possible that you get lost on merely the second?" 

"Natural talent, I suppose." Because it does take something special to get lost in a straight line. 

"Well, strap in because I'm told your final lap wasn't any less spectacular." 

My face was once again stuffed into that hideous half helmet, and the closeup showed me just how chubby my cheeks would get if I ever gave up and let myself go to McDonald's for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. ["C'mon, Bas. Don't forget to use the wheel this time. A car isn't just the accelerator pedal."] 

"Wise words, let's see where he goes this time." The start was good, I made the first turn again. "Chicago has landed. Will he make it through Hammerhead?"

["Left?"] The car jerked with my wrong turn.

"Nevermind, he's lost again."

["Ah, no, wait! Right - man, forget this!"] I'd forgotten the route so why not my restraint as well? One hand shot out and ripped the e-brake while the other whipped the steering as I sent the bastard barreling around the bend in a text book fwd drift. Until the exit entered, so I disengaged the brake and put every ounce of power down and successfully completed the lap without any further extraneous exploration. ["Whew! Clean as a whistle."]

"No, it wasn't! We'd better get your time on the board before you lose that, too. You're far from the sole Vegas act we've had." True. Both David Tennant and Michael Gambon were prominent features on the rankings. "Let's see if you can pull off the same magic they did." Michael Gambon had been immortalised on the show - mostly for almost dying at the last corner, which then subsequently was named after him. "Anyone you'd like to beat?"

A quick survey cemented a name on my mind. "Simon Cowell, primarily because he made Jack Black cry on American Idol."

I leaned forward in my seat. Jeremy leaned back in his seat and held the paper with my time close to his chest.

"You did it in… one…" both the audience and I thought that was the bare minimum I should've achieved since we were all silent. "Forty…" now the oohs and aahs swelled. Little by little, Clarkson, with his thumb covering my time, moved the magnetic strip with my name sharpied on up and up and up. "Five…" I overtook Dumbledore, swerved past Barty Crouch Junior, until I breathed down the cologne drenched neck of the world meanest judge. "Point four!" And parked myself right above him at the top. "Bas Rhys, everybody!"

Clarkson, the audience, and I all leapt to our feet in celebration. Kissing those apexes was all well and good, just too bad that'd be the only kisses I'd be getting tonight. 

"Does this mean you'll name a section of the track after me?" That would've been a greater privilege than even topping the leaderboard.

"That would have required you to actually drive on it rather than around it." My shame for all the world to see.

"So, before we leave off, have you decided what car you'll buy yourself first?"

"Yeah. I think I do."