I used to go to Le Mans every year. It was like a religion. We’d set off in convoy and catch an early ferry on Friday morning, reach the town of Le Mans by Friday afternoon, have some late lunch, maybe celebrate with a few too many Stellas, and then just sit back and watch the carnival unfold. It was one of the best weekends of the year.

And although the racing was almost a backdrop to the general festivities, it was still the reason we made the journey: to watch the spaceships going around, day and night, hammering it out against each other until just one car – sometimes it was a Porsche, sometimes it was a Jaguar, one year it was even a Mazda that sounded like a demented wasp – emerged victorious.

For a little while in the late 1990s it became a bit of a Porsche-fest, did Le Mans. But for the most part, and for most of the years on which we went, we didn’t know who was going to win. Watching the race was riveting, genuinely, because more often than not the result was impossible to predict.