The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [145]
Next stop, the casino. The Stig won big on the fruit machines just by staring at them. We had a little help from the floor manager, who brimmed them full of coins and rigged the programme with a code I plan to use in Vegas. All that remained was to buy some candyfloss and cuddly toys for the journey to the lights.
As we walked along the pavement people jogged alongside waving their mobile phones and recorded their own pieces to camera. Everyone was incredibly friendly. A bunch of Renault Clios started doing laps up and down the street to demonstrate how much noise they could make, then pulled a series of wheel spins. Five points out of ten, I’m afraid. If you really want to light up those tyres, Son, try using the handbrake.
We drove across to the main stage for the big moment, with an alarming number of punters in hot pursuit. I had to duck down in the back seat of the van to avoid an incident.
Radio 2’s DJ Mark Goodier was whipping the crowd into a frenzy as we arrived. I walked straight through to a VIP enclosure, where celebs asked me how to get on to Top Gear. Everyone seemed to be obsessed with it.
The DJs announced the bands that would be performing live on stage to the swelling audience. When Boyzone were mentioned, they roared in their thousands. Then the DJ said, ‘And we’ve got … Top Gear …’ I was fully expecting to hear a pin drop.
The crowd went ape.
How could three plonkers and a storm trooper be more popular than Boyzone?
I made my way around the VIP enclosure and found the cornerstone of any social gathering: the buffet. I lined up behind Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, lofty long-haired interior designer, and we loaded our paper plates with finger food – and I mean loaded.
‘Nice outfit,’ he said. ‘A little impractical for dinner?’
I waved my still gloved hand in the direction of the edible pyramid I had constructed. ‘It’s for my cat.’
‘Touché. Mind the Jalapeno peppers; could be dangerous for a man with white underpants in your line of work.’
I held the fort until the presenters finally made it at 8pm. After all that, a red-eyed Hammond won by a single minute from an excitable Jezza, the giant Duracell bunny who never slept or ate. James was nowhere in sight. His ‘special route’ had taken him into the back of beyond.
We three prepared to go on stage. I was deaf as a post (with my helmet amplifying the roaring crowd) and blind to boot, but I could see everyone close by was buzzing. People were happy – nodding, clapping, waving. It was an unforgettable experience.
As we walked on stage the crowd erupted. People were jumping up and down, screaming, waving and pointing. I’d never seen anything like it: girls on boys’ shoulders, banners waving, and a giant inflatable penis on a stick. No home should be without one. Jeremy and Richard went in as brazenly as ever, waving back to the crowd, taking it all in their stride. I tried not to fall over the hidden lighting cables.
I was still coming to terms with the sheer number of faces staring at us when an object on a peculiar, arcing trajectory entered my field of vision then dropped at my feet. A pair of knickers. I never knew who threw them, but I knew my life could never be the same again.
The time had come to hit the switch. Richard and Jeremy were arguing about who should.
‘You turn them on …’
‘Really, no, you do it …’
That was my cue. The lever sat on a big square plinth. It looked sturdy, like a beer pump. To make sure I didn’t cock it up I strode across and yanked the thing hard. It turned the lights on all right; I pulled so hard the platform toppled towards me, but thankfully stayed upright. One million lights glowed, fireworks went off, hallelujah. It was Miller time.
We bundled ourselves off stage and into the crew vehicles, from where we were given a police escort back to the hotel. I got changed in the back seat, watching in disbelief as police bikes in parallel formation blocked one side junction after another to