Some say that he has no understanding of clouds, and that his ear wax tastes like Turkish Delight. All we know is he’s called the Stig.

Speed focuses the mind. It cuts through the fog of drab everyday living and keeps us on our toes. Speed works. Speed saves lives. Speed is good. And we should have more of it, not less.

If a football official were to call for a slow-motion replay every time Didier Drogba fell over, each match would last about six weeks.

Like every big organisation these days, the BBC is obsessed with the wellbeing of those who set foot on its premises. Studios must display warning notices if there is real glass on the set, and the other day I was presented with a booklet explaining how to use a door. I am not kidding.

Mix an anorexic body with a heart made of pure fire and you are going to go with a savagery that's hard to explain.

Some say he never blinks, and that he roams around the woods at night foraging for wolves. All we know is he’s called the Stig.

I'm having a nice cold pint and waiting for this to blow over.