The Stig is coated in Teflon. This is possibly the only answer I can provide, given that he’s just appeared striding across a recently ploughed Lincolnshire potato field, yet has arrived spotless, eye-cringingly white, his race boots unsullied by the thick mud. As ever, he simply marches up and holds out a hand, demanding keys. And, as ever, I try to engage him in conversation and get absolutely nothing in return, except for a slightly impatient beckoning motion and a sense that I am, somehow, an imbecile. So I toss him the keys to the Porsche, and watch as he snatches them perfectly out of the air while looking the other way. He then walks up to the Boxster, slides into the seat, prods every available button to maximum - except for the PSM traction control, which he disengages - dials up about 4,000rpm and exits in an acrid flurry of tyre smoke. The little Porsche howls in delight, the rest of us just stand there and watch.
Photos: Matt Howell
This article originally appeared in the December 2012 edition of Top Gear magazine