James Bond. A night shoot. A party scene located at the baddies headquarters, (in fact a modernistic office located by the M25 ).

It was a night shoot involving over 600 extras. Myself and the other men were dressed in DJs while the woman, thankfully, wore the most outrage outfits.

For some this night would probably be the high spot of their lives (though I hope it wouldn’t be and that there was better to come.)

Some had won a competition that Best magazine had run for the Best dress. They were of course, so excited. They weren’t to know that none of their work would be seen in the movie

Though the ‘party’ had started with just that in mind – there was a strong smell of weed in the air – nothing happened to us, our group of 300.  All calls to ‘action’ were taking place somewhere way off, far in the distance.

Night shoots always seem to take a lot a longer than day shoots. The hands on the clock seem to turn slower.  So some started to relax, falling into tidily lined bundles of black and white and coloured sandwiches doing so with such alacrity that snores and snoozing sounds were soon apparent.

When filming you’re meant to stay where you’re put until needed, but it seemed as if we had been forgotten.

I’d had enough and besides had to ensure to Claudette, that I produced proof that I was there, on the set and in the film instead of being off looking for trouble in the West End. Strange how my mind works.

So I set off to find where they were actioning Action.

There seemed to be something happening on an overhead gantry way down the long room so I walked up to it and acting if I belonged there, climbed the long flight of open steps. I was unchecked and unchallenged.

It was all happening up here. Here was the whole unit. The director, the A.D.s, the sound man, the boom girl, (with a figure you would not believe), hair and makeup girls, continuity, aids, etc etc etc etc etc

And the very man himself, Mr Pierce Bronson.

I walked across the gantry, toward the scene, again unhindered till I found myself on the shoulder of the A.D.  He turned around and saw me. “You’ll do,” he said. “Stand here beside Mr Brosnan.”

Me? Him? Same shot! Just the two of us?

Now I have always thought Mr B was just a touch egocentric and had not included him as one of my favourites – no doubt he thought the same of me – and now here we were, face to face, on a gantry, together and destined to appear in the same movie in the same frame.

He smiled. He spoke. “I don’t like doing these bits,” he said. To whom?  To Me. Well who else.  “I don’t like doing close -ups.”

Him. With his face!  Well, I can tell you that changed my opinion of him! What a nice man!

We did the scene. We were perfect.

“Cut. Checking the gate,” called the director. That’s one set of words you look forward to hearing. It means the director is happy with scene and just wants to check that no hairs had got into the camera’s film gate.

“OK,” called the cameraman.

It was then that I noticed the wire, a red wire hanging down between myself and the great good-looking star, Mr B himself.

“Here,” I said. “Have you seen this wire,” turning toward the cameraman.

“Yus,” said the Brummy accented cameraman. “But don’t worry yourself. Its not in the shot.”

“Then how about me?”

“Aw naw. You’re not in it either.”

Claudette never believed any of this.

C 2010 J Hepworth Snorban Uk Ltd