Can you imagine what life would be like if the tabloids came after you, if they started waving six-figure cheques under the noses of all your old friends and colleagues hoping to uncover something juicy? Girls, boys, cows . . . whatever.

We all have a dark secret that we hope will remain buried. Something that would cause us to duck behind the parapet for ever should it become public knowledge. Something disgusting, immoral and unpleasant. I do — I was once a member of the Ford Cortina 1600E Owners Club.

I’d meet other owners in the Doncaster area once a month for some beer and crisps and we’d chat until closing time about 1600Es. Then, once a year, there’d be a national gathering when members from all over the north — the 1600E never really caught on south of Leicester — would flock to a field.

The preparations we’d make for this annual event were immense. I would spend weeks removing the black paint from my Rostyle wheels. I would polish, then repolish, the chromed air filter cover that I’d bought from the discount store for £2.99. The fur with which I’d lined the doors would be combed, the paint lacquered, then lacquered again.

Once there we’d mooch about all day, peering at one another’s engines and picking up useless tips. I remember once being particularly enamoured of some bloke’s graphic equaliser. He, in turn, loved my Wolfrace seats. We didn’t actually kiss — well, not with tongues — but it was close.

Looking back I cannot for the life of me work out what was going on in my head. Today I loathe any form of club with a passion. The notion of spending my free time with “like-minded people” fills me with dread.

I can only enjoy myself socially these days if, when I sit down, the person next to me opens with: “Did you see that thing in The Guardian this morning?” I like the company of hardline feminists and men who think Tony’s doing a good job. The notion of an all-male G and T session down at the golf club makes me feel sick. The very idea of an all-male anything fills me with horror. All that “snooker cue, speedboat, fast car, business deal, look at the legs on that” is just horrific.

And German. Over there, in the Fatherland, 95% of adults belong to at least one club. There is even a popular society called the Appreciation of the Irish Postal Service which meets once a month for tea and stamp swapsies.

According to my friend in Cologne, this clubbiness is born from a German fear of free time. “We don’t know what to do with it,” he explains. “We must have structure and order in our lives, and being in a club gives us that.” Aaaaaaaargh.

We see this on the infernal internet as well. I urge you to visit one of the chat rooms when you have a moment. Forget the teen ones because they’re all full of policemen pretending to be 12-year-old girls. Go for anything labelled “thirtysomething”, partly to have a look at the drivel that these “like-minded” folks spout but also to look at their “member profiles”.

Each one has a motto, and they’re all basically the same: “Live life to the full”, “Life is not a dress rehearsal” and “Party, party, party”. So what the hell are they all doing in chat rooms then? Still, it could be worse. They could be in the Aston Martin Owners Club. This is a terrifying organisation full of people who speak only in chassis numbers. I played an interesting game with one of its members last year. I’d say something that had absolutely nothing to do with cars and then see how long it took him to get back to Aston Martin.

The longest gap was six seconds, which when you consider that I opened with, “What do you think about the Jamaicanisation of Barbados?” was quite an achievement.

The other extraordinary thing about the Aston Martin Owners Club is that I’ve never met a single member who actually owns an Aston Martin.

Things are very different in the Ferrari Owners’ Club. Its members do tend to own a car with a prancing horse on the back, but mostly it’s a motley collection of Mondials, 400s and nasty 308 GT4s. You just know they’ve mortgaged their carpet shops up to the hilt to get one foot on what they see as the bottom rung of the most exclusive ladder of them all.

They think that when they meet up, Nic Cage will drop by with his new Enzo or that Nick Mason will entertain them after dinner with a nice little drum solo. But mostly it’s just other people with carpet shops in Dewsbury who like to spend their evenings away from the wife, talking the V8 talk with like-minded souls. You don’t have to be mad to be a member . . . which is a good job, because none of them is.

They can’t drive either. I went to one of their track days earlier this year while filming a piece for my new video — No Limits, out now — and couldn’t believe how slowly they all went. But then I suppose if you’ve sunk everything, and a whole lot more besides, into your car the last thing you’d want to do is crash it.

Which prompts the question: if you’re not buying a Ferrari to go fast, why buy a Ferrari at all? Well, I can think of one good reason: the new 575M.

In the beginning there was the 550, a front-engined, two-seat GT that looked a bit like a Toyota Supra but went like it had been blessed by God himself.

Then along came the Aston Martin V12 Vanquish — chassis numbers begin with 00634/b/1 — and Ferrari felt its warhorse needed updating. So out went the 5.5 litre V12 and in came a 5.7. More power, more stuff, more everything.

Er, no. You see, the Americans had always argued that the 550 was a little too exciting.

It was a cup of espresso when what they wanted was a Styrofoam bucket of instant, so for the new model the suspension was softened, the engine bark muted.

I never actually drove one of the early examples but people whose opinion I respect — Tiff Needell, for starters — told me it was rubbish. A big, soft, wallowy old brute that cornered like a house.

Ferrari was quick to respond and immediately retuned the springs and dampers. And for European tastes it even offered a double espresso version with something called the Fiorano handling pack, Fiorano being the name of Ferrari’s on-site test track.

This is the model I drove and it was sensational. The interior’s not much cop and it still looks like a Supra but it’s just so fast. Even with a ridiculous paddle-shift gearbox it does 0 to 60 in 4.2sec and the top speed is 202mph.

And the handling is just sublime. Yes, the Fiorano pack makes it hard, brutal even, but you can do things with this car that border on the insane. Damon Hill said it’s the only car he has driven since leaving Formula One that hurled his head back under acceleration. And hurt in the corners.

Obviously at £154,000 it’s not cheap, and nor I suspect is it good value. The F1 gearbox for instance is an £6,500 extra, whereas exactly the same thing on a Maserati costs just £3,000.

But for the keen driver I can think of no better car. I’d probably buy the Bentley Arnage T instead but that’s because I’m getting old and soft. The Ferrari is a different animal — more raw, more vicious. The Bentley is like being in a gentleman’s club, all warm and cosy. The Ferrari is like going out clubbing.

Vital statistics

Model Ferrari 575M Maranello
Engine V12
Capacity 5748cc
Power 515bhp @ 7250rpm
Torque 435 lb ft @ 5250rpm
Transmission Six-speed F1-shift
Suspension (front) double wishbones, coil springs, anti-roll bar, electronically controlled dampers; (rear) double wishbones, coil springs, anti-roll bar, electronically controlled dampers
Tyres (front) 255/40 ZR18; (rear) 295/35 ZR18
Fuel 13mpg (combined)
CO2 499g/km
Dimensions 4550mm length, 1935mm width, 1277mm height
Company £11,200 for higher-rate car tax taxpayer
Acceleration 0 to 60mph: 4.2sec
Top speed 202mph
Insurance Group 20
Price £154,350
Verdict Raw, vicious: a perfect driver's car with sensational speed and sublime handling

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