The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [110]
I drew a short straw for the job of rolling over in an old BMW M5 converted into an abominable wheel-clamping machine. Heavily reinforced with sheet metal, a sealed fuel tank and a completely flat side so that it could flip off a ramp and skid along on its flank, it looked like a mating of Mad Max’s interceptor with a door wedge.
I could see just enough through the scratched polymer and wire mesh windscreen to manoeuvre around the arena and harass the other cars before meeting my ‘death’. I disappeared behind the stage, peering out in search of the five foot tall launch ramp. I had to hit it in a dead straight line. The engine misfired from the hammering it had taken, so sometimes it would dribble off the end of the ramp, but at other times I could drive on two wheels for a while and then slam into the deck. Being banged in the side of the head every time it clanged into the concrete was a touch monotonous, but someone had to do it.
Eventually the engine conked out part way up the ramp. I teetered on the edge and plopped off the side next to the stage. I unbuckled my harness and fell out of the inverted seat to stand on the passenger door, which was resting on the ground. I smelt the usual whiffs of pyro and oil but no fuel leaks, so I scanned through the windscreen to make eye contact with the mechanics and give them a thumbs up. As I did so, I noticed a gigantic box of pyrotechnics with coloured wires coming out of it, less than a metre away from the windscreen. It looked nuclear and was due to go off at the end of the sequence to send a percussion wave towards the audience.
I had no radio to contact the producer, so I tried using telepathy: ‘Frenchie, please tell me you’ve disarmed the pyro—’
‘BOOOOOOMMMMM …’
The shock wave rang through my metal cage and a cymbal-clashing monkey was let loose in my brain. Ears ringing like church bells, I kicked my way out of the armoured door and leapt down on to the arena as the three presenters ambled past. I ripped my helmet off and took a deep, quivering breath.
Hammond had obviously seen the whole thing. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Was that nice?’
‘Outstanding.’
Jeremy was also in his element. He proudly announced our arrival in the former colonies with the line: ‘Britain used to be a Kingdom, ruled by a King; then it was an Empire, ruled by an Empress; and now we’re just a Country.’ He leapt around the floor as referee for the football games and narrowly missed having his feet flattened on numerous occasions. He waxed lyrical about the hotbed of supercars we had on display with undimmed enthusiasm throughout the tour. He even kept going when his voice went, and all he could do was squeak.
I spied Jeremy screaming around the arena on a jet-powered bicycle with a riotous grin on his face, run across stage to introduce another act and head behind the curtain for a short break. The Red Bull was on ice for him, so I handed him one as he lit up. He stubbed out the fag after four deep drags, wiped the sweat from his brow and went back on stage.
We were allowed right off the leash to create a pure driving spectacle. We even tried to make the commercials (which live performance allowed) unforgettable.
With the ‘Navman’ we unquestionably succeeded in that – but not necessarily in a good way. It was unique to the Sydney shows and it was horrible. It started with a man and wife driving on to the stage arguing about directions. Eight thousand confused Australian punters looked on from the packed grandstands of the Olympic stadium. Then Navman galloped to the rescue.
Or rather sidled down the aisles dressed in a tuxedo, singing, ‘You’re too good to be true-hoo. Can’t take my eyes off of you-hoo. You’d be like h-heaven