When you go to a grand prix only one thing really matters. What sort of pass you have dangling round your neck. I went to Monaco this year as a guest of Jaguar, which meant I had two passes: a green one which afforded me entry to their caravan in the paddock, and a silver one which allowed me into their hospitality unit above the start/finish line.

Unfortunately, to get from one to the other I needed to cross a footbridge, which meant I needed a red pass, and red passes are only allocated to really important people who have liveried shirts and serious faces. You see someone with a red pass dangling among the medallions and you know they’re better than you.

People with red passes have the swagger of 19th-century butlers. These people are allowed upstairs into the drawing room and as a result they sneer at the dishwashers with the green passes. And the only comfort we can take is that while they’re allowed over the footbridge and into the drawing room they’re not allowed on the grid after the cars have lined up at the start of the race.

To do that you need a track pass and to get one of those you need to be mates with Bernie Ecclestone.

This year at Monaco, Bernie’s mates included Lionel Richie, Roman Abramovich and, for some extraordinary reason, me. This meant I could go on the footbridge. And from there I could look down on the Gordon Jacksons.

It also meant I was on the start line as the drivers climbed into their cars and started their engines. And as a result of that, my views on motor racing have changed for ever.

As a spectator at events in the past, the most exciting thing had been the pass round my neck. At home, watching it on TV, the most exciting thing had been the adverts. But here, on the grid, the atmosphere was so electrifying the air felt almost solid.

The only place you’d find pacy breathlessness to rival this is in an MTV video. And the only place you could find such a dazzling array of primary colours is in a seven-year-old’s pencil case. Then there was that primeval Jurassic howl as the V10s roared into life. I whirled round and round thinking: how in God’s name can they make this so dull and anodyne on television?

Part of the problem is that the people who run the teams and organise the events and drive the cars are always there, live, as the race happens. So they never actually see just how stupefyingly dull this sport can be for the folks back home.

They have their read-outs and their strategies and they can see that their man is gaining on the chap in front as each lap slides by. So they must think when the race is run, “Wow!” But we cannot see all these things on television. We only see the cars going round and round and then we nod off.

There must be a way of capturing the crackle of excitement I felt in Monaco. I refuse to believe that these extraordinary cars, and the brave young men who try to tame them, cannot become a Michelin three-star feast of excitement on the electric fish tank.

People have made cooking exciting. They have made other people moving house exciting. There is even a programme about dirty carpets which attracts a quarter of the total viewing audience every time it’s shown. So don’t tell me that a Jaguar doing 200mph inches from a Ferrari’s gearbox is dull.

One of the things I’d do is ban stewards’ inquiries. After every incident, accident investigators sit down and study videotape to see who was to blame. Er . . . this is motor racing so no one was. Ever.

Two weeks ago Takuma Sato did his best to liven things up at the European Grand Prix in Germany by diving down the inside of Rubens Barrichello’s Ferrari. Happily, the two cars touched and the Japanese driver was forced to pit for a new nose cone.

It was a brilliant speck of chilli in a sea of wallpaper paste. But far away in the commentary box, James Allen and Martin Brundle told us it was a silly, impatient, reckless thing to do. What? Are they mad? Do they want to kill the sport? If I’d been in that commentary box I’d have been on my feet bellowing with excitement and calling for Sato to be knighted, or gutted, or whatever it is they do to heroes in Japan.

I fear today’s observers are too close to the action. They are afraid to criticise drivers because, as we keep being told, they all sleep in the same hotel and give one another lifts to the circuit in a morning. They also know that if they criticise the sport itself their beloved passes will be taken away. Fine. Commentate from home. But give me the dirt. Give me a bad guy. Give me someone to hate. And you can start with Ralf Schumacher.

Just because his brother is the greatest driver of all time does not mean he’s even half way competent, or else why not have the news read tonight by Huw Edwards’s sister?

Ralf is paid £7m a year by the BMW Williams team and I cannot remember seeing him overtake anyone, ever. He just cruises around at the back, getting in everyone’s way until he has a Reginald Molehusband accident. He pulls into the pits when there’s nothing wrong with his car. He brakes far too early for corners. And he has a face you’d never tire of punching. The only thing in F1 that’s uglier is that walrus-toothed car he drives.

It makes my blood fizz that there’s a brilliant young guy called Anthony Davidson trying desperately to get a drive in Formula One. But he can’t get one because that sour-faced ape is in the way.

I have a great deal more to say about Ralf and many, many plans for rejuvenating Formula One racing, but I’m afraid time is tight and I really must move on to this week’s car. The BMW 645Ci convertible.

I’m not a fan of the hard-top version because it has awful seats, a terrible driving position, a nasty ride, a useless satellite navigation system, an ugly backside and, if you go for a manual, a dreadful clutch. I’d rather spend £6,000 more and buy a proper sports car like a Porsche 911, or a proper GT car like a Jaguar XKR.

But it’s different with the convertible. You can’t have a Porsche with no roof because you’ll look like a homosexual, and you can’t have a drop-top Jag because the hood looks like it’s been made by Millets. You could have a Mercedes SL, of course, but the dealer will be rude and for this sort of money it’ll have the same sort of engine they put in a motorised pencil sharpener. As a result it will only do 4mph.

Sure, the new BMW convertible is still riddled with the faults that plague its more solid sister, but it’s rather elegant to behold and as a result it’s a nice place to be. What’s more, with the roof down you can actually hear the 4.4 litre engine making V8 noises as you accelerate.

It handles with much finesse and steers well, too, but it’s more a cruiser than a B-road barnstormer. I suspect BMW’s idea of the ultimate driving machine is far removed from mine. As is their idea of the ultimate driver.

VITAL STATISTICS

Model: BMW 645Ci Convertible
Engine type: V8, 4398cc
Power/Torque: 333bhp @ 6100rpm 332 lb ft @ 3600rpm
Transmission: Six-speed manual, rear-wheel drive
Suspension: (front) MacPherson struts, anti-roll bar (rear) Multilink rear axle, coil spring, anti-roll bar
Fuel/CO2: 22.1mpg (combined)/310g/km
Acceleration: 0-62mph: 6.1sec
Top speed: 155mph (limited)
Price: £55,355
Verdict: Far from the ultimate driving machine but an elegant cruiser with lots of finess

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