Making Movie Magic #4

Lunch time. A time to relax. A time to chill out. Not that we weren’t relaxed and chilled out already, but we could have a chat with the hot Russians from the previous shoot. But they didn’t show. Hold on a minute - none of the women are here. Okay, we could live with that. As a famous man once said - I think it was Norm Peterson in Cheers - women: you can’t live with them … pass the beer nuts.

Hold on another minute. Who are all these other blokes? Middle-aged and elderly bar-fly types in greasy-elbowed jackets.

The afternoon shoot was to be in a bookies. The women weren’t needed so they’d paid them (for a full day) and sent them home. More men would be needed though. They would be paid for a full day too. But us, we’d have to work a full, and likely long, day for the same money.

Led by our self-appointed shop steward, we trooped up to the co-ordinator like a band of French farmers/firemen/civil servants/childminders/toothbrush repairmen and demanded justice. Stuff your job up my arse. I can get a job any day of the week nowhere. More hours less money. Fuk you. A bollix, that’s what I am, he bellowed. Or something like that. I can’t remember exactly, but it fell on deaf ears anyway. Apparently our perk for the day was lunch. And not only that, but there’d be pizza and sandwiches later. And we could have Monday off.

Well that was different then. Pizza. Why didn’t they say. Of course we’d work on.

Mini-buses dropped us off near the bookie shop. We waited for the bus to return with the second group. Then the third. We waited. And waited some more. Across the street, Mark and Gerard waited. Mark a body builder, Iron Man champion and Gerard, an actor, dressed as a vicious looking punk with tartan and pins - think Neil from The Young Ones with haemorrhoids.

An old woman waddled down the path pulling her shopping basket, seen us blocking her way, crossed over the road, seen Mark grunting and flexing and Gerry getting into character by staggering about shouting nonsense, turned and headed back the way she came muttering bollix to this, I’ll have to go to Dunnes instead.

Inside the bookie’s the lights and large crowd meant it was stifling. Frequent breaks had to be taken outside. It started to rain. We were glad of its cooling effect. The crew weren’t - we couldn’t be on camera with damp clothes. So about twenty umbrellas magically appeared for our use. That was one of the many times I seen that when something was needed it was there within minutes. And if it couldn’t be got, then an alternative was improvised. Forward planning? A well stocked props truck? I never found out. But it amazed me.

Okay, said the AD. For this one I want you, you (me - I was the middle-you all day for some reason) and you to look up at that TV there and cheer, not out loud now, just mime, as if your horse was about to win. Can you do that? Well of course I could. I’ve clocked up more bookie shop hours than Richard Branson has air miles. I was being typecast.

What he didn’t tell us was, the camera would pan slowly across our three faces in turn. Now that was bum-clenchingly scary. I panicked. The first take was no good. Middle-you was too hammy. The double-yous looked dead. The next take it was the other way round. After another few tries we finally we got it right. After all that, it wasn’t used in the final cut.

Another long day. Well at least I’d have Monday off. The phone rang at 6am …