The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [92]
My directions, ‘eighth bar on the left’, seemed vague at night as I strained to see even the neon lights through my visor. The helmet had to stay shut. Some of the friendlier oranges were slapping my shoulder and taking flash photos through the open cabin. Amidst the sea of people I recognised Dan De Castro the Spanish yeti, biceps burning as he legged it with his camera.
With the cameras rolling I cracked the throttle a final time, switched off and marched towards the nearest bar.
‘Not that one, the other one,’ Iain shouted from camera 2.
A few minutes later I made myself at home in the Ten Bar with a cocktail. It wouldn’t be long before The Stig’s sex appeal attracted plenty of attention, and sure enough as Jeremy made his entrance I was suitably dripping with fans getting their pictures taken.
Jeremy clocked me at the candle-lit table and doubled up laughing.
‘We’re in Puerto Banus, in a bar heaving with fanny, and you’ve managed to pull four blokes …’ He raised both palms to the heavens and then waved at the scousers I’d met in the course of their stag do.
‘No, honestly, before you came in there were girls here, I swear.’
Thanks to the magic of TV, The Stig’s honour was soon restored. A group of scantily clad chicks were waiting upstairs with the other cameras, and we filmed the kind of shots footballers’ wives see of their husbands every week: champagne, bling and boobs.
With the filming over, I made the transition from Superman back to Clark Kent in the urinals and joined the lads in the open-deck bar. The boys switched their heavy cameras for lager and melted into the leather sofas. Brian Klein was grinning from ear to ear.
‘Did you see him with those blokes? I mean, honestly, Ben, you’re like the Pied Piper for Sun readers.’
‘Well, I saw something tonight I would never have dreamt possible,’ Jezza gasped. ‘A Spaniard running, actually running. Welcome to the English way of life, De Castro.’
‘Fuck you, Jeremy, at least our government isn’t run by a bunch of Scots gits.’
Jeremy laughed so hard he choked on his beer.
To make good our departure without giving my game away, Jeremy drove off stealthily in the lime green Lambo. I ran through the back alleys, caught him up and swapped seats for the journey up the mountain.
Weirdly, it was the first time I’d ever driven with Uncle J on the open road. The ribbon of polished tarmac that led up to Rhonda from the coast is one of the most breathtaking in Europe. It was a clear night, and the soft moonlight showed just enough of the rock face lining the road to see ahead without drowning out the stars. I didn’t worry about the drop into oblivion to my left because the Lambo was sensational at following precisely the path I ordered. The V10 bellowed at the moon and we just flowed up the winding road on a magic carpet.
Jeremy called his wife and held his phone into the air. ‘Can you hear that? Ben’s driving us up the mountain. It’s just epic.’
Epic or not, as soon as we got into town he started busting my balls about the route, insisting we take his one.
‘So which way now, Sherlock?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, you’ve come in the wrong way, man, turn left. No. Right.’
‘Well, which one is it, Jeremy? Left or right?’
‘Are all racing drivers devoid of brains and sense of direction, or is it just you?’
I never argued with Jeremy, he was too bloody good at it.
‘Shut up … you … fucking talky man …’
He roared with laughter at his own expense for the second time that day, and the name has stuck with him ever since. Crucially, it bought me twenty seconds in which to figure out the way to our hotel.
I found the Bull Ring and then home.
The close of another day in paradise.
Chapter 22
Bitten by the Bug
Some days I maxed as many as fifteen different cars with no lead-in. With the time constraints of filming,