RallyIreland: in the passenger seat:After finishing seventh in Rally Ireland, Matt Wilson brought Kilian Doylefor a lesson in speed
'What are you doing next Monday?" asked the Motors editor.
"Depends," said I, fearing the worst. I had visions of attending the ribbon-cutting ceremony at a new loading bay somewhere.
"How would you like to be driven around by a world rally champion?"
At least, I think that's what he said. I'd passed out before he could finish.
When I came to, the enormity of what I'd been offered sank in. Tearing around in a Ford Focus RS chauffeured by double world champion Marcus Grönholm? There are many, many people who'd gladly hand over significant parts of their anatomy for such an opportunity. I'm among them. Count me in.
I watched the first stage of Rally Ireland with more than a little interest. Grönholm won, manhandling his Focus around the super-tight Stormont course in a blur of speed and precision. Even from the safety of my couch, it looked terrifying. What had I let myself in for?
Thankfully, reason stepped in and took charge before I cried off. The chap is one of the greatest drivers, rally or otherwise, of his generation, I told myself. He's hardly going to crash, is he?
Next day, Grönholm, who is currently locked in a tussle for the world title with the reigning champion Sebastian Loeb, did just that.
His sideways slide into a wall alongside Lough Gill left him out of the rally, and possibly the title race.
And, worst of all, he'd miss out on the honour of terrifying me.
Luckily, his BP Ford World Rally team mate Mikko Hirvonen had finished Rally Ireland unscathed, securing Ford the manufacturer's world title in the process. And it was Hirvonen's car that was waiting when I arrived at the closed-off industrial estate outside Sligo.
The Focus you have in your driveway bears as much resemblance to this 300-horsepower beast as a sabre-toothed tiger does to a pet kitty. It is a savage, snarling monster of a thing. Driving it was 20-year-old rising star Matt Wilson from the Stobart VK M-Sport Ford Rally Team. He'd just finished seventh in Rally Ireland. Which makes him utter dynamite.
I blindly signed the indemnity form. All thoughts of wife, children and pitifully inadequate life insurance policy left my mind the second the engine started up.
The noise is insane. Your average car tries to placate the neighbours with sound insulation. A rally car doesn't bother. It wants the world to hear it roar.
Inside the car, it's stripped as bare as a Beckett play. There is nothing in here that isn't utterly indispensable.
There is a bank of buttons I won't even try to explain. Partly because they're too complicated. Mostly because I haven't a clue what any of them do. I frantically look for the ejector seat button, just in case. There isn't one.
I'm belted in. Six points. Even my gusset is strapped. Presumably to prevent an escape attempt. The belt is too tight to reach down and kiss my backside goodbye. I blow it an air smacker instead. Wilson looks at me quizzically. I smile sheepishly.
"Ready?" he asks. Without waiting for an answer, he floors it. It feels like I've been picked up by a giant hand and thrown against a wall. The car is accelerating so hard I'm in danger of losing the enamel off my teeth.
First corner - a right-angled right-hand bend. We go round it sideways at the kind of speed I'd baulk at doing in a straight line. Tyres bite into the mud. Car takes off again, full belt. Brakes on, another hard bend. Lefthander this time. Emerging sideways, I see the sharp corner of a factory wall 10 feet ahead of me. If the car doesn't right itself soon, I'm going to be stuck to the side of it like a gargoyle.
He flicks the wheel. We're straight. Momentarily. Through a traffic-cone chicane, up the tarmac, another handbrake turn, right foot down hard. Directly in front of us is an electricity substation, all pylons and cables and instant death. I'm wishing I was wearing a racing suit strapped tightly round the ankles as I fear I'm about to lose some bodily fluids. This can't be happening. Nobody can drive this fast on roads like this.
Last second, handbrake goes on and we grind around the bend. Full tilt again, a final right-hander and the lap is complete. I'm giggling like a nervous schoolgirl in a tent full of laughing gas. The best thing of all? It was left-hand-drive, so I could pretend I was driving it myself.
"Again?" he asks. As if he needed to ask.
If I'd had my way, we'd have still been doing laps when the WRC comes back to Ireland in two years' time.