get some lunch.
The Top Gear catering unit consisted of a double-decker bus and mobile trailer. When the schedule was tight I grabbed my own scoff. Each chef greeted me with the same startled look as I bowled up like a white-suited Oliver Twist. They checked my wristband periodically to ensure I had a meal ticket. Can’t be too careful.
‘How do you eat it?’ the chef asked.
‘I snort it through a straw. What’s for pudding?’
‘Something squidgy.’
Depending on the guest, I might get a briefing beforehand. With my limited knowledge of TV personalities I needed all the help I could get.
Wilman took me under his wing and talked me through it. ‘Right, Stiggy. Today we’ve got Martin Kemp driving the reasonably priced car.’
‘OK.’
‘Do you watch EastEnders?’
‘I’ve seen it, yes. Is he the bald one?’
Andy shot a bemused look towards the heavens. ‘No. He’s the baddie. Everyone hates him; well, not the public but in the show. He used to be in Spandau Ballet. Can you teach him some good moves out there so he sets a fast time?’
‘Absolutely, assuming it dries.’
It didn’t. The track stayed as slick as Kemp’s hairdo and he spun so far off the track during practice that he nearly collected a $6m helicopter.
I handed Martin over to the presenters, who went about filming their pieces with him in front of the studio audience. My job was done, yet the night was still young. I never hung around after studio days for a beer or a chat. It was decidedly antisocial of me, but I really did have somewhere else to be.
Chapter 8
Green Fatigue
We gathered around the Directing Staff Instructor, a decorated NCO who bore the angry scar of a shrapnel wound in his neck, a legacy of the Balkans conflict. Plissken was a stocky northerner whose boyish looks belied his frontline experience, and he spoke on rapid fire.
The reasons for us being there were many, though none good enough at this stage to merit more than veiled contempt from the real Men in Green. The Army Reserves may have been part time, but the Airborne ethos was all-consuming.
In modern times British airborne forces have become renowned for rapid insertion into theatres of operation around the globe, after fifty years of successful deployment in everything from jungle warfare and counter terrorism to the deserts of the Middle East. A free-thinking force with a will to overcome any obstruction.
Recruits had to develop the mental and physical resilience to cope with the most challenging scenarios. By the time we were ‘wasting’ Plissken’s oxygen, swingeing physical tests had halved our number. The course itself took place mainly in Wales and involved arduous uphill work in the Brecon Beacons, a stunning range of heather-clad peaks notorious for their inclement and unpredictable weather. As primarily weekend warriors, it took the best part of a year before we were deemed worthy of further training.
Passing required a high level of navigational skill and physical stamina. The chances of making it through were one in twenty, which cheered me no end. They were considerably more favourable than the odds of becoming an F1 driver, and no one asked you to hand over £1.5 million for the privilege.
Slick weapon handling drills were critical to staying on the course. We disassembled, re-assembled, loaded, made ready and constantly karate chopped the sliding bolt action of the SA80 assault rifle, aka the ‘piece of shite’. Safe handling and consummate knowledge of every component of the weapon system was vital. With our woollen hats pulled down over our eyes, we learnt to strip it blindfolded.
‘We’re not here to fail you lads. We’re here to teach you to survive. I don’t give two shits whether any of you make it or not. Quite honestly we don’t need a single fucking one of you. If you want to be here, that’s down to you.’ Plissken paused to let his message sink in. ‘Jones, where’s your head cover?’
‘I left it in the block, Staff.’
‘Fucking spastic. Use my one.’
‘You!’ A boot thumped my own. ‘What size rag do you use to clean this weapon?’
‘Forty-five by forty-five, Staff,’ I answered.
‘Correct. Forty fucking five by forty fucking five, and if any of you dick-heads try and shove anything else down the barrel you’ll be paying for it with the armourer.’
His footsteps receded. I slipped the bolt carrier assembly back inside my rifle and fumbled for the recoil rod. A twanging spring suggested a fellow recruit had just got that part badly wrong.
‘Lord Jesus Christ, what ’ave you done?’ Plissken moaned.
‘Sorry, Staff …’
‘You will be, son. Start with fifty press-ups, the lot of ya.’
Men had died on the Welsh mountains while undertaking arduous recruit training. Training was relentless, punctuated by intermittent, brutal exercise called ‘fizz’ – sprint here, carry a man there – reducing us to gasping wretches within seconds. Lessons were never repeated. You learnt them or you failed.
Between work commitments I exercised every day in every way. Every escalator became a step machine, every run a beasting. I swam, surfed, cycled and climbed at ten tenths.
I was training in Snowdonia when my phone rang. It was the best kind of blast from the past. I told Georgie I was living in London but currently training in Snowdonia. Yes, I’d love to see her. Next week would be fantastic … I had goose bumps, and for once they had nothing to do with the harsh weather. I practically sprinted across the hillside.
The next few days took years. I wondered how much she’d have changed, and how much I had. It had been ten years.
We met in a dimly lit restaurant in town, and after the molasses had melted in my mouth it was just like old times. Her smile was as intoxicating as ever and for two hours nothing else in the world mattered. The difference this time round was I realised how much more interested I was in her life, her choices, her hopes. She had travelled the world, excelled in every kind of water sport and remained passionate about art. Work came second. And me? I suddenly realised I’d developed a potentially terminal case of tunnel vision – but, thankfully, she was still patient, and the wine was strong.
Chapter 9
Live at Earl’s Court
I arrived at the imposing gates of Earl’s Court exhibition centre in London. By now I was warming to the concept of just turning up at places with no idea what to expect. I pulled out my kitbag and wandered into the building. A raucous howl reverberated through the walls, followed by the shriek of tortured rubber. My kind of music.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness. Blackout curtains separated the hive of nocturnal backstage activity from the bright kaleidoscopic lights on stage. Row upon row of priceless supercars, new and vintage, were lined up so close it made you wince just looking at them.
Someone appeared at
