• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Buoyed by this, I put the pod through its paces on the slalom course of ‘Old Broad Street’ and managed to get it to powerslide, which felt even stranger. It could J-turn and was actually better than the standard Merc at high-speed reversing because you had a bird’s-eye view of the streets below.

It was a spooky ride for the passengers inside the carriage. With no sight of the driver or even a working steering wheel, they had no idea where the car was going, when it would speed up or suddenly come to a stop. Giving the boys passenger rides became a popular gig during down time. I showed them how to drift their front- and rear-wheel-drive police cars, and Rowley showed me how to do a handbrake turn in a 12-tonne beer truck.

I sat in the cab and Rowley nailed it until we were doing about 55, then he swerved hard right, hard left and cranked the air brake. The rear axle seized up, wallowed and spun around to fill the coned street we had marked out.

‘Aha, aha,’ Rowley crowed. ‘Won’t be quite as cosy as that on South-wark Bridge, I facking tell ya.’ He wasn’t lying.

Our first destination for filming was Bank tube station at 5am one Saturday morning. We brought a new kind of congestion to the capital in the form of stunt men and action extras by the hundred, scores of crew and the cast of a Hollywood blockbuster in the making.

‘Today we will be smashing a lot of cars and I want everyone to switch on,’ said Steve Dent, setting the tone for Day One.

Everyone was fitted into their various costumes: pin stripe suits, post office uniforms and innocuous bystander get-ups. I sported a Nick Cage wig and tan suit for the perfect ‘Man from Del Monte’ look. The dark brown bouffant perched on top of my head made me look like a prize tosser and Rowley let me know it.

The strongest antidote for Rowley was Pete Miles, a loveable rogue from the West Country who baited him remorselessly.

‘’Ere Ben, watch this,’ as he pretended to harvest a giant bogey, a piece of broccoli, from his nostril. Rowley eyeballed the green matter on the tip of Milesy’s finger, whereupon it was flicked onto his sleeve. Rowley dropped his cappuccino but otherwise was frozen rigid by the kryptonite.

‘Get it off, get it off, OFF.’

The streets in and around Bank tube station were in regular Monday morning mode, except that nobody was moving. Everything was on pause. Vehicles were stationary and every face was turned in the same direction, waiting for a single command.

The first assistant director called over the loudhailer, ‘Lock it off.’

‘We’re locked up.’

A water bowser squirted its contents across the empty streets. Continuity throughout the chase was important, and the producers had decided that it was raining.

‘Stand by, cameras.’

‘Rolling.’

Steve shouted, ‘Stand by. Action.’

The engines began to rumble. A 12-tonne Fullers beer truck driven by Milesy charged into view and ‘commuters’ dived out of its way. There was no way the truck could stop in time for the traffic lights and a postal van was already turning across the intersection.

The clash of metal and glass made the ground shake; it was the kind of shunt people didn’t walk away from.

The truck hit the van so hard amidships that they momentarily became one. It then slid into the traffic island, flattened a bollard and creased the light gantry. The driver pulled the steering hard left. There was no room for manoeuvre in the ‘traffic’ but it didn’t stop him. Milesy knew that five cameras were recording his every move and this was a one-take wonder. He ploughed through a Vauxhall Vectra as it backed away and tore down Prince’s Street towards Threadneedle, grazing the Georgian brickwork of some Spanish bank.

‘CUT. Reset!’

I craned my head around the street corner and watched the show. I was ten years old again. Our immediate concern was for second-generation stunt veteran Franky Henson, the driver of the postal van. Franky climbed out grinning like a space cadet but otherwise unscathed. The first a.d. went