Indulge me, if you will, in a little daydream. It’s the close of the 20th century and you’re standing in the doorway to the bedroom of a car-obsessed teenager. Step inside – careful to avoid the trip hazard of the Scalextric set – and look past the dirty dishes and strewn clothing and you will find well-hidden, yet painstakingly choreographed, order. Everything has its place – one which is awarded within a grander hierarchy.

The first rung on the ladder might be the window ledge. Naturally, it's caked in dust, but the model of the Lamborghini Diablo upon it is immaculately clean. Poking out of the VHS player you’ll find a copy of Clarkson Unleashed on Cars, while jutting out of the games console will be SEGA’s Colin McRae Rally. Next, scan the desk in the corner. It isn’t dominated by school textbooks or homework, but is home to a collection of dog-eared car magazines, plus a set of Top Trumps.

Finally, you reach the pinnacle: the framed poster above the bed. The car pictured is the absolute centre of this kid’s universe. What are you seeing from your childhood? The McLaren F1? The Aston Martin Vantage? Or maybe it’s a Speed Yellow 993 Turbo or Scarlet Ferrari F355.

For me, the car in that poster was the E39 BMW M5 in Avus Blue. So – what was it about the E39 that deserved the ultimate accolade in my teenage bedroom? Two things stood out: first, it was the ridiculous output of 400bhp from the new 5.0 litre V8 – a figure that seemed absurd back in 1998. Second – the thing that really made me lose my collective shit – was the four exhausts nestled within the back bumper. Four exhausts…on a sober executive saloon? This was unheard of. At the time, four exhausts was the exclusive reserve of the Italian supercar aristocracy; yet here was this Bavarian family box elbowing its way into their Polo club. From that moment on, the M5 owned me.

It helped that the E39 simmered with discreet menace. All the clues were present and correct: a discreet chin spoiler, sculpted M mirrors, massaged arches and a lip spoiler on the boot so discreet it was almost apologetic. But it was the stance of the car that truly set it apart. A perfect judgement of ride height, arch clearance and rake – all set off by those achingly desirable, deep-dish alloy wheels finished in ‘chrome shadow’. Those in the know could spot the M5 from 100 yards away. To everyone else, it remained anonymous – just another five-series company car.

Then, the first road tests started rolling off the printing presses. The praise was universal. The prose giddy about how the M Division had discovered its mojo again after the E36 M3 and the characterful-but-flawed M roadster and clown shoe. It mattered that magazines like Autocar and EVO raved about the M5’s driver focus – singling out the persistence with a manual gearbox and a locking differential when all others chose a torque converter and a one tyre fire. A fuss was also made about the great lengths the M Division took to reduce unsprung mass with the widespread use of aluminium in the front suspension arms and the multi-link rear setup. Then came Tiff Needell on the lockstops in the pouring rain on BBC 2 at 8pm.

Honestly, if I had been Barbara Broccoli, I would’ve delayed the production of Tomorrow Never Dies by twelve months. Why did Bond drive a 750iL in TND when this thing was in the pipeline? Still, at least we got treated to Clive Owen chauffeuring Madonna around at speed in those fantastic – and fantastically expensive – short film commercials. Best Bond there never was, driving the best Bond-car there never was?

Am I getting ahead of myself? Yes I love this car, but we’re 800 words in and the bloody thing hasn’t even turned a wheel. I’m in the driver’s seat and the excitement is reaching fever pitch. The key residing in my clenched hand is starting to leave an indentation and the driver's window is reflecting the sort of wide-eyed, gurning smile you only get in the front row at Creamfields.

So why am I stalling? I’m insured. My favourite roads are clear and twisty. I know them well enough to anticipate where the car will shine, and where it’ll be tested. And, speaking of shining, God has set the sun just-so. There’s even a cooling breeze. Everything is textbook.

It’s simple: the F-E-A-R has me. The never-meet-your-heroes sort. What if I fail to discover the magic? What if those on-paper numbers that blew my mind 25 years ago are found wanting in an era of instant turbo torque and whip-crack paddleshift transmissions? What if the suspension is tired and the roadholding is underwhelming? What if the box steering offers the same concise feedback as a Boris Johnson Prime Minister’s Question Time? Maybe it’s a case of imposter syndrome - can I trust myself to be objective?