Glastonbury’s a funny old place. Every year hundreds of thousands of people camp in fields, listen to music, drink copious amounts of booze and forget about the real world. Which is a bit like the Nurburgring 24 hour race, except with cars.

I say this, because I’ve just driven back from the German ‘Glasto in our long termer Porsche Cayman, after what can only be described as the mother of all motoring events.

Visitors march the streets in search of the finest ‘Ring corners, after which tents go up and fires are lit. It’s all very tribal and exciting, especially when the sun goes down and Porsche 911s fly by at 175mph followed closely by the Chinook-like roars of Merc SLSs.

For journalists, pit lanes and garages can be accessed with the flash of a badge, at which point the inner-workings of a team are exposed. It’s a very surreal place to be in and an intimidating one at that. Every few minutes a siren will sound followed by a tumultuous wave of movement and the arrival of a race car. Stand in the way and you’ve had it.