The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [146]
James and his crew arrived looking utterly ball-bagged. His hair had gone straight with tiredness, and his upper body was motionless as his legs propelled him towards the bar. Lawrence of Arabia had crossed the desert. I’ve never seen Jezza laugh so hard.
‘Fuck off,’ James snapped, then treated the girl behind the bar to a dazzling smile. ‘Might I have a beer please, Madam?’
Three film crews had crossed half of Europe, arrived in Blackpool on time and captured all the footage in a single day. It was a remarkable testament to how the quirky management structure of Top Gear worked its magic. Our production unit was utterly extraordinary; their diet of long hours, every kind of weather and a packet of crisps made them lean, mean shooting machines. They were the unsung heroes who captured the stunning footage that brought these stories to life.
Chapter 35
Who is the Stig?
Without my really noticing, Top Gear had ballooned into a worldwide phenomenon. It was being watched by over eight million people in the UK and by upwards of 350 million in 100 other countries, generating tens of millions of pounds for the BBC. The Stig had become the poster boy for Top Gear magazine and led the brand’s merchandising campaign on pretty much anything that stayed still long enough to have his picture stuck on it. There was everything from Stig Easter eggs to Stig soap on a rope.
Interest in the identity of the man in the white suit reached fever pitch at the end of 2008. The home team, perhaps without realising it, then managed to fan the flames.
I returned from the gym one morning to be greeted by the carpenter who was fixing our kitchen floor. He drew out a copy of the BBC’s Radio Times, slapped it on the table and asked me to sign it.
The front cover was dominated by a photo of someone in the familiar pose, with the caption ‘WHO IS THE STIG? The Nation Wants To Know, so we decided to find out …’
‘Your photo’s inside …’
I bit my tongue and flicked it open.
The piece inside featured the ‘two chief suspects’ for Stigdom and I was the only racing driver.
Text messages started raining in. People who thought I might be The Stig took the article as confirmation. Another story broke in the Daily Star a few months later. A builder who said he’d worked on my house claimed I had a shrine to The Stig in my living room, complete with suit and helmet in a glass cabinet. As if. Ten days later the floodgates opened.
Georgie braved the elements – and the rumoured camera crews – to grab the day’s papers.
‘Oh dear, BC. You’re in nearly all of them …’
My stomach lurched, but then – something I didn’t expect – flooded with relief.
I rang Wilman. ‘Well?’
‘Well …’ The minutes ticked by. ‘There’s no point sacking you, since we’re denying it’s you anyway. Just stay clear of any sodding journos.’
At the time I really appreciated Andy’s loyalty. He was under a lot of pressure internally to ‘get another one’.
A News of the World crew took photos of our old house, along with someone else’s ‘reasonably priced’ car. Then there was a knock at our door. I was greeted by a slightly sheepish soccer dad in a checked shirt. ‘Mr Collins? I think these must be for you.’ He handed over a bunch of letters that had been addressed to me but delivered a couple of streets away.
‘Thank you very much.’
He shifted from one foot to another. ‘We’ve had some journalists at our place.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Quite a few. Photographers too. All I know is I’m not The Stig …’
‘That makes two of us then.’ I gave him a grin and thanked him for coming round.
I got a call from one of the producers a few days before the start of Series 13. I expected him to dispatch me straight to HMS Intrepid. ‘Hope you’re all set for this Wednesday. Ummm … What size overalls and helmet you use?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Can’t tell you.’
‘Then I can’t tell you.’
‘We’ve got something cooking for next week’s guest.’
‘Who is …?’
‘Can’t tell you that either; it might