6am and the phone rang. Uurrggh, hua wha? I answered in my best Swahili. Can you be in Johnstown by 7? Eh, no. A little after maybe. Can you dress as a country type? Well I live in the country and I can type. Like in a tweed or wax jacket and flat cap. Wear wellies. Oh, and can you use a shotgun? Expecting trouble from the fashion police? Look, I’ll explain later. See you at 7. 6:30 would be better. You can explain at 7:30 or 8.

I arrived at 8:30 in the grounds of Furness House and immediately set to work eating breakfast. By 9 a few other extras had arrived so they told us the plan. Over the next few days we would be shooting scenes of a Country Fair, or Field Day as we call it around here. Tents and bunting were dotted about the paddocks. Stalls decked out with bric-a-brac. Stuffed animals and birds. Those little rope fences everyone ignores. It must have taken days to put together and looked very authentic. Albeit more Home Counties authentic than Irish authentic. Miss Marple-esque.

There was to be a fight in a tent, a chase, shots fired at a van, clay pigeon shooting, pit bull terriers and more. This would be exciting. But first we would have to do some waiting. By now I was a seasoned, well lightly salted, extra and I coached the newbies on the best methods of waiting - reading a paper five or six times, staring blankly at a wall, checking your watch, switching seats with your neighbour, pacing slowly back and forth. I did a good job - by 11 they were old hands at waiting.

Then we got to do walking. Not normal walking mind you. Oh no, this was to be aimless walking. Everyone would stroll about checking out the goods on the stalls. Ramble in and out of the tents. Cross paths with a friend and stop for a chat, then move on. Look happy most of all. Most important to look happy and smile.

The devil was in me that morning and he was as big as an ass. I delighted in crossing paths with friends and suggesting I’d banged their mothers and watching them try keep smiling. One long 5 minute take. Easy peasy. The AD shouted wrap and I ran and hid behind the props truck until things calmed down. The props guy assumed I was the help he’d asked for and I spent the next hour moving gear with him. Waiting and walking I had down pat. And now I had lifting to add to my CV. Life was good.

Next up were the pit bull races. A young girl sat in a cart and it was harnessed to each of the dogs in turn. The handler (out of camera) teased his dog with a toy and it pulled the cart a few metres to cheers from the crowd. All lovely and pleasant. My arse it was! It was more scary than waking up naked and sweaty beside Mary Harney. These dogs are powerful animals. Ropes were attached to the back of the cart and two more handlers (out of camera) pulled with all their might against the dog. At the end of the run the handler would toss the toy on top a trailer out of sight of the dog while he undid the harness and put the muzzle back on. One dog seen where his toy had gone and went ape shit trying to climb the trailer. We gasped. The director on the other hand shouted for everyone to keep clear and kept filming. Unplanned as it was, it turned out to be one of the best clips in the movie.

I wasn’t allowed in the fight scene because I’d already been in close ups. That was disappointing. It was in a tent too so I couldn’t even watch. But it was interesting to see the stuntmen (and one woman) don their body protection. Genuine athletes these folks. They limbered up before even practising their moves. They appeared to toss each other about like rag dolls though in truth most of the tossing was orchestrated by the offended party. Despite the armour they moved like dancers. A bare knuckle ballet.

The lovely Jules appeared and, to make up for my not being allowed in the fight scene, gave me an important task and even a title. I was to move the stuffed birds inside a tent if it rained and was to be known as Avian Protector or AP for short. Not quite AD, but close enough. And not only that but I could pick my own assistant. Seán the fireman-on-his-day-off and I performed flawlessly. Watching the sky closely and taking note of the weather reports. Howya. Do you think it’ll rain. No. Don’t think so. Grand so. What do you reckon? Will it rain? It might do. Clouds are a bit dark. Grand so.

It rained. We moved the birds. It was getting dark so we were sent home. The next day, my car would join the ranks of extras.

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 …

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.

My last two posts, Making Movie Magic #1 & 2, have been taken down temporarily. (They will be reposted when the time is right).

One of the three main actors in that movie, Tom Murphy, died the day before I wrote the first instalment. I didn’t know. Sorry, Tom. I really didn’t know.

He was one of the nicest, friendliest, down to earth guys on the set and a pleasure to watch act. The character and actor merged until you couldn’t see the joins.*

For those who haven’t viewed his best work, see Adam & Paul. Rent it if you must, buy it if you can - it is worth keeping.

* Lenny Abrahamson - The Irish Examiner 09.10.2007

Day 2 came and I was glued to my bed. Not literally. The lovely Jules hadn’t carried out her threat. I was just plain exhausted from 14 hours of doing bugger all the previous day. And I still had leg cramps from supporting Joe’s Greyhound Feeds. But I made it back to the stadium on time and with the requested two changes of clothes.Less than half of the extras showed up. The long hours and paltry pay no doubt. The assistant casting director was getting bollicked by her boss while at the same time frantically phoning the no-shows and pleading with them to do just one more day. Only one seemed happy - a veteran of Veronica G and other movies, he explained we’d get bigger servings for lunch. The other Veronica Vets were less than happy - the chances of your face being caught on camera today were high, which meant you wouldn’t get called back. Once used, you’re out.

Notice I said camera, not cameras? There was just one. I always thought there would be lots scattered around at various locations. But no, just one, and each scene was re-enacted over and over with the camera at different angles.

This morning was to be busier for us extras and I got to observe many of the tricks. Footage of a densely packed stand was needed. We stood in the top right corner. An AD ran past the winning post and some of us cheered while others who had backed the wrong dog scowled. Then we shifted three positions and swapped hats, coats, glasses etc. with our neighbours and repeated the scene. We did this until the AD was exhausted and we had covered the whole stand. The computer would later mash all the shots together to show a stadium jam-packed with animated racegoers.

At lunch we all sat down together. Cast, crew and extras. This was to be the norm. We had just been shy the previous day. Among movie extras there are always aspiring actors, directors etc. Sean McGinley seemed happy to offer advice and coaching to one of the school kids. The director advised another on which were the best courses to take. In fact everyone of the real team were more than willing to share their knowledge and experiences. Phone numbers for agents and advertising companies were passed around. There is more money to be had as an extra in TV ads than in movies or TV series. Make sure you negotiate for residuals if possible. Stay away from such-and-such agency - they take too big a percentage of your fee. Try get on such-and-such’s books - they always have work on.

Only in the worlds of open-source software and bookie shops have I seen the same willingness to part with information.

The day dragged on with more sitting around. It was raining on and off and even when it wasn’t the clouds were blocking the light. Reflective hoods like massive silver umbrellas usually do the trick but today the light was changing too quickly.

It was evening before the skies settled and we were on again. This time the camera would be pushed at speed the length of the kennelling yard, through a milling crowd, coming to rest on an actor’s face. The problem was the milling crowd. There weren’t enough extras for a blender never mind a mill. We all had to double up. For me that meant walking slowly across the path of the camera (without looking at it - never ever look at the camera!); pulling off my jacket once out of shot; running down the side to the far end; putting on a hat and glasses; and walking slowly across the shot reading a newspaper. The first of 10 takes, I got clipped on the shin by the camera trolley. Jayzez, that hurt. 20kg of trolley, 90kg of well fed cameraman, 40kg of camera, being pushed by 4 strong men. The lovely Jules rushed over. With a broom. And began smoothing over the gravel I’d scuffed when I fell. The director decided I would have to start moving before the AD shouted action. That was so cool. He’d say: Ready everyone. Mr. Sneeze. Aaaannnd, action!

I went home exhausted and sore again. You’d be sore too if you fell and no-one fussed over you!

There was to be an open casting. So exciting. Would they give me lines to say? What would I wear? I thought about it for a split second and the answers came to me: no and clothes. Movie extras are like those extra lines of code Microsoft Word adds in when a Word doc is saved as HTML - there are hundreds of them, they might think themselves important and might look important, but in truth, they are superfluous.

Open casting entailed sitting around for a couple of hours and then having your picture taken with a Polaroid by really important person number one. Really important person number two then took your name, address and phone number and asked if you had any previous experience as an extra. We all had worked on Veronica Guerin, The Club and Braveheart apparently. Except me.

I learned my first lessons that day.

Everyone has a title in the movie making world. Important persons one and two were Casting Assistant and Second Casting Assistant. I would hear other titles over the next month. Grip, Art Director, Assistant Director (a lorry load of them, all neatly numbered), Standby Props (he drove a lorry), Focus Puller - Second Unit - Once Removed - And Pushed Sideways a Notch.

The second lesson was how to sit around for hours. I later theorised that extras are chosen based on their ability to do absolutely nothing for 3 hours then spring into action for 3 seconds.

A week later the phone rang. That’s what phones do. Not usually at mid-night but this time it did. Hi, Primal. Can you be in Newbridge Greyhound Stadium tomorrow? Half seven? Yes. Okay. Grand so. Wear a suit.

I arrived promptly and suitably attired at 7:30. And sat drinking coffee and rereading the paper in silence. In silence, as they were shooting right outside the door. Sean McGinley sat quietly puffing a monster cigar reading a book. Actors brought books - extras brought newspapers. He was called, went out, delivered his lines, came back in and sat down again.

I was learning the skill of doing nothing from a great actor and just getting good at it when they called us. At 11:00. Jules, the Art Director, pressed fake notes (embossed with Gerry Adam’s head) into my hand with a stern warning: If you don’t return these, I will personally hunt you down in the dark of night and do all manner of things to you. Looking down at this petite Californian with her deep brown eyes I thought what a pleasant experience that might be.

One of the AD’s (see I was already getting into the lingo) told me to walk down the steps, place a bet with the bookie and walk slowly back checking my docket. One of the actors would bump into me. If he hurt me I was to shout out immediately. A health and safety thing. How the hell is a little fart like him going to hurt me, I asked. I probably won’t even feel him hitting me. Oh, yeah, you’re right. Well when he brushes past, you stagger then. Can you do that? Yes, I’m well known for my ability to stagger.

At 11:45, having suffered the embarrassment of being pushed aside by a midget about ten times, I was told to take a break. But I’ve already had a 3 and a half hour break, I protested. We’ll be calling you again soon, the AD assured me. They did. At 15:00.

But first there was lunch. A van, not unlike something you’d buy chips from, served out the most unbelievable food. A choice of main courses: peppered steak, roast beef, salmon, cod or veggie option. We even got dessert. How 100 people could be fed from such a small kitchen was beyond me. The miracle of the Ford and fishes. The seasoned extras went back for seconds but the chef, being even more seasoned, turned them away. It was like a scene from Stones in his Pockets.

That afternoon the lovely Jules was in trauma. She’d run out of Blu-Tack and there was a sign that simply had to be on a low wall near some steps. MacGyver (that’s me) came to aid of the fair maiden in distress. If I stand here, with my leg lifted and resting on the wall like this, I can hold it up with my heel, I beamed all helpful and horny. Brilliant, Primal! You are my saviour, honey. So I held Joe’s Greyhound Feeds fast for the first few takes. Beginning to tire, I switched legs. The director had a total mickey fit. Everything had to remain the same. Everyone must hold their positions. No moving! I had to keep the same leg raised for the next seven takes. An hour passed. I was in pain by then and when he shouted wrap I relaxed. Too quickly. The left leg buckled, the right one wouldn’t straighten and I crumbled in a heap and rolled down the steps.

The lovely Jules fussed over me. The nurse was called. The lovely Jules and the nurse fussed over me. The lovely Jules and the costume assistant fussed over me. They would have my suit cleaned. The lovely Jules and the extras coordinator fussed over me. I would get bonus money. The lovely Jules and the props assistant fussed over me. I’m not sure why - I never got a stuffed greyhound or anything. And I still have the fake money but never got the promised mid-night visit.

Overall though it was a good day. It was calm, normal and uneventful compared to those to come.