It is when we hit the first corner of the road skirting the Bluewater shopping centre in Kent that I begin to fear that my lunch might end up all over the back of Jenson Button’s crash helmet. The newly crowned Formula One world champion is performing a few “hot laps” as part of a promotional day for his sponsor and I have been one of the “lucky” ones selected to tag along for the ride.

“You’re not saying much,” Button says, somewhat sadistically, as he takes a roundabout at what seems like 300mph. I try to murmur a response, but my life keeps flashing before my eyes. “Don’t worry, won’t be long now,” he says, sounding like the dentist who performed my last root canal treatment.

Button is a genius. I have played tennis with Roger Federer, snooker with Ronnie O’Sullivan and cricket with Andrew Flintoff (apologies for the name-dropping), but observing at close quarters as the British driver takes his car to its limits and beyond – skidding, screeching and occasionally taking off from terra firma – is the most powerful, vivid and, yes, stomach-churning revelation of sporting greatness I have yet experienced.

He is even able to chat amiably as the back of the car is disappearing into what seems like an uncontrollable skid, his smooth hands and lightning reactions reasserting control even as a shriek begins to rise in my throat. And this isn’t even a F1 car: it is a souped-up Mercedes. God only knows what it would be like alongside him on a F1 racetrack.

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Little wonder, I reflect, that so many women go wild for these racing types: nerveless, fearless and implacable in the face of danger. Even I find myself softening in his grip as we shake hands after the road session, my body yielding to his high-octane masculinity. “Did you genuinely enjoy that?”

I whimper like a wide-eyed teenager. “Hell, yeah,” he replies, his face illuminated by life-force, fumes of testosterone billowing from his body. “That is what life is about.”

He smiles that megawatt smile, all dimples, teeth and easy charm.

Is it any wonder that Button, 29, who is in Bluewater to promote Virgin Media’s Speedweek 50 broadband service, is so widely liked? That he is so lusted after by the pit girls? That he is so popular with the motor racing public? This is a man living a rollercoaster life straight from the celluloid of adolescent fantasy.

But what lies beneath that mellifluous, irksomely handsome exterior? What makes the new F1 world champion – with his millions, private yacht and lingerie-model girlfriend – tick? Is there any depth, any soul, or is it all about speed, money, chicks and his luxury apartment in Monaco?

Button is sitting on a couch in a large truck parked in the Summer Garden area of Bluewater for a proper sit-down interview. Outside, television crews, photographers and other assorted media types are jostling for Button’s time, but not getting much shrift. “This is the only one-on-one we are doing,” Button’s personal publicist tells me firmly, and I smile in a way that I hope conveys my gratitude. The only other person in the room is his personal assistant, who is taking notes.

Button, for his part, is wearing a pair of dark blue, fashionably scruffy jeans, black jacket, grey-black trainers, a white and fluorescent yellow baseball cap and his familiar seven-day stubble. He seems a little distracted, his eyes gazing into the middle distance, but this is more than understandable. Less than 48 hours earlier he completed a career-defining drive at the Brazilian Grand Prix in São Paulo to claim his first F1 World Championship.

It was more than a triumph for Button, it was a vindication. A vindication of the faith with which so many had entrusted him during a long career that had promised so much but, until this season, delivered so little. A vindication of the fighting quality that many insiders had begun to doubt as he went backwards after a lightning start to the season. A vindication of his supreme talent following years of bad luck in underperforming cars and underperforming teams.