The Secret DJ tells their story of being driven by a promoter high on cocaine

It was when the novelty started to wear off and we hit the autostrada that I realised just how optimistic Paulo was about his ability to do 400 miles in 90 minutes – and also, how very unstable he was. When we got up to nearly 200kph, in the wrong gear, his beautiful car screaming in protest, and he took his hands off the wheel and started to get his drugs out… let’s say I started to feel slightly concerned.

“Cocaine?” offered Paulo in frankly the only moment of politeness thus far.

“Oooooohhh, Aahhhhh, EEEEEEEE!” I said.

Now I don’t mind drugs; I know from experience you can function just fine on them – although some a lot better than others. It was the car that was the elephant in the really tiny metal room of death: very powerful, very unsafe and most crucially entirely in the hands of someone who wasn’t paying attention at all. He had no idea how to drive a manual car, chugging, stalling, screeching and cursing his way out of the airport, and he was now happily running at full revs in the wrong gear, ignoring the stick thing by his side. This vehicle had the power of a small aircraft and was just as likely to go shooting off into the air if you pressed too hard on the wrong pedal.

“Paulo, I think you need to go into sixth gear,” I ventured.

“You want gear now?”

“No thanks. Never mind.”

I was nervous on all levels. Apart from being just old-fashioned deathly unsafe it was a magnet for police. Paulo was pulling drugs out of every pocket and was clearly out of his gourd. It’s a bummer to get arrested the minute you arrive in a new land. It’s downright impolite to break the law before you even break the ice. It didn’t help that I had spent an awful lot of my career driving myself around the fastest roads in the fastest cars. I was not comfortable at all being driven by someone clearly worse at it than I was.

On this occasion, there was no music, just a scowling, sniffing Paulo and the deafening howl of the protesting engine and gearbox. It made time drag hellishly without even a rubbish amateur DJ mix to distract me. I had to do something.

“Hey Paulo... would it help if I drive? I’m insured to drive any vehicle all over…”

SCRRRRREEEEECH! The car came to a dead stop.

“GETOUTTA THE FACKIN’ CAR, STRONZA!”

The bastard left me in the middle lane of the autostrade, at 3am, never to be seen again. You don’t ever tell an Italian how to drive.