At the Australian Grand Prix of 2009, me, my girlfriend Jessica, my manager Richard Goddard, Dad and a few others decided to get a bite to eat at Nobu. I can’t remember how far we’d got through the meal when we became aware of a kerfuffle. His Royal Highness Sir Richard Branson was arriving. And he was very, very drunk.

Earlier in the day, and with a bevy of flag-bearing dolly birds in his wake, Sir Richard had marched up and down the paddock, waving, grinning and giving the thumbs up to his adoring public, who were, in fact, wondering what he was doing there in the first place.

The reason, of course, was that he - and Virgin - had a couple of stickers on our car.

I can’t say he’d won a lot of admirers with that stunt, but at the end of the day he’s national treasure Sir Richard Branson, famous publicity seeker, so you cut him some slack. It’d be like hating a dog for barking at the telly. It’s just what they do.

What he did in the restaurant was less excusable. However, before I go on, it’s only right and proper for me to point out that he apologised for what happened that night, and even said that he gave up drinking for months afterwards.