As we know, stag nights are terrible things that cause perfectly normal men to be sick and push root vegetables up one another’s bottom. So imagine my delight when a friend announced recently that his stag do would be alcohol-free. “Yippee,”

I thought. “I shall be able to come home with a full complement of pubic hair.” Then I discovered why there would be no drinking. Because it was a “driving day”.

One of the other guests, a public-relations man of some repute, couldn’t understand why I was so harrumphy. “Well, dear boy. It would be a bit like inviting you to spend your day off pretending to like journalists. You’d be a bit harrumphy too.”

I’d heard all about these track days, of course, and none of what I’d heard was very encouraging. Rubbish cars on their last legs. Lots of cones. Two hours of safety lectures. Four hours of hanging around. Ten minutes of driving. Undrinkable tea. Wilting biscuits. And a million rules about overtaking, none of which says: “And if the bastard doesn’t move over, ram him.”

Happily, however, we went to Jonathan Palmer’s gaff on an old airbase near Bedford, which is about six days away from everywhere else in the British Isles. Jonathan seems to know that people don’t like waiting four hours to drive a Maestro. Which is why, five seconds after arriving, I was behind the wheel of a Caterham.

And then, after 10 laps, we were whizzed in luggzury 4x4s to another track, where we did 10 laps in some Renault Clio touring cars, and then it was Porsche 911s and then it was a funny sort of miniature Le Mans racer. And then we were dipped into Nomex, asked to put on some driving slippers and slotted into the single-seaters.

The instructor asked if I’d ever driven such a thing before. “Of course I have,” I replied indignantly. “I am a presenter on Top Gear and so I have driven everything.” But then I started to think. And realised that I hadn’t. That’s a bit like Jonathan Ross realising one day he’s never seen Brief Encounter.

Obviously, it wasn’t a Formula One car, but it wasn’t a puny Formula Ford either. It had slick tyres, a 3-litre Jaguar V6, a power-to-weight ratio of 500bhp per ton, a top speed of 170 and easily enough room in the cockpit for anyone up to 6ft 3in. I’m taller than that but I’ve been cramped before in exotic cars so I wasn’t even remotely worried about the drive that lay ahead. I should have been.

You hear motor sports commentators talking about the problems of cold tyres and you see all those mechanics draping the rubberwear with electric blankies to keep them warm and you think, “Oh don’t be so silly. And stop weaving around like that. Cold tyres can’t possibly make any difference.”

That’s why I went barrelling into the first corner only to discover I had no grip at all. I’m not talking about the rear end being a bit skittish. Or the front washing out. I’m talking about the steering wheel being completely and utterly redundant. So into the grass I went.

Happily, because the track is in Bedford, you could spin for a thousand miles in any direction and not hit anything, so soon I was off again, imagining that I’d made a mistake of some sort. But no.

I crawled round the second corner because everyone else was facing in the wrong direction and made it all the way to the third, where I braked carefully, came down the sequential box, turned in gingerly and — whoa — spun again.

Explore Jeremy Clarkson

• Greatest Hits

• Good Car, Bad Car