Making Movie Magic #3

Leaving the greyhound stadium late the night before I got my instructions: Tomorrow morning, be at St. Bodecia’s Home for Bewildered Bloggers at 7. Bring two changes - one casual and one you’d wear going on the pull. I explained on-the-pull to me meant stopping a horse winning and if they meant clubbing attire, I didn’t have any. Ah, don’t worry, we’ll find something for you to wear if we have to.Now that scared me. I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink. The Shirt. They would make me wear The Shirt. I just knew it. The Shirt had first appeared from the bowels of the wardrobe-wagon two days ago. Think something a sixties porn star would wear. (Wear briefly, of course). Big collar and stripes just as wide. It had been passed from extra to extra like a grenade with the pin out. The only thing to do was get a few pints. It was Saturday night after all and I needed a sedative.

Sunday at 7 I arrived slim, trim and brim full of porter. I wasn’t the only one. Most of the crew and extras had stayed on at the track drinking in the bar and betting on dogs. We were feking dying. And what was the scene to be shot? A nightclub. At least we had enough alcohol in us to play the part.

Actually without it we were sunk. It’s not easy pretending to be a happy half-cut clubber at 8 on a Sunday morning. Even harder when the nightclub is in fact the basement of a gay bar, the beer is 5% alcohol-free Beck’s and 95% tap water and you’re wearing The Shirt.

At least there were loads of women for a change. And some fine ones too. And dressed to kill. Not like me - in The Shirt - dressed to slightly graze a knee. The 3 leads would meet up with 3 hot Russian babes. They were hot, though only one was Russian. Rumour of a sex scene started and spread like wildfire. Right, okay, I started it. So what? It kept the lads slavering and the girls tut-tutting for hours. Better than sitting around bored.

And we had the female D-4 extras to snigger at too. All were real acKtoors. All were just doing this as a favour to a friend. All were starting work on a Mel Gibson production next week. A Mick Gibbons TV ad more like - typecast as Drummy Mummys with lines straight from a Ross O’Carroll-Kelly book.

We were called downstairs. I was to sit at a gaming machine with a girl’s arms* wrapped around my neck as my prowess at killing things was applauded. All very fine except the lovely Jules put the smoke-machine under my stool. By lunch time I had more dry ice up my arse than a lazy polar bear.

Lunch time back at base camp was when the row started and a threatened walkout had to be averted. More on this later.

* They were attached to a girl in case you’re wondering.