I was a film extra for around 10 years.  This led to some interesting stories.  Here’s one.

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The sun, a slip of a thing, was just cresting the hills over the eastern sky, as I drove down the mist filled winding country lane. It lead towards a large, green, glorious valley you would have thought came straight from the rolling country of old Ireland itself.  It was so well hidden you’d never know where it were and could never in a heap of Sundays find it for yourself so I’ll tell you a secret; it was just six miles from Gorgeous Guildford itself.

We were working on THE MAGICAL LEGEND OF THE LEPRECHAUNS written and directed by John Henderson – (Gulliver’s Travels and the TV’s Borrowers.)  With a cast of thousands, well, 750 to be precise, and all of them men – well not all; – it stared Zoë Wanamaker, Randy Quaid, Whoopee Goldberg etc. etc.) and Zoë Wanamaker (did I mentioned her? Sure? Well, she is magnificent that’s why!)

The early days were taken up by our putting together a highly capable fighting force from a previous rabble.  Early intensive training of the leprechauns took place under the tutorship of a very young A/D –who would occasionally yell clear and helpful instructions such as “when I say left I mean right” and whose knowledge of the army, and its ways, was probably based on another army, the Salvation Army!

This sweet lad asked each man to space out.  “Like this here, Sir, and now you, here, Sir, behind him like this Sir.”

“You mean you want them to form ranks, do you?” said I astutely.

“Yes!” he said, and then after a thought, “…………..probably.”

So that was how I found myself in charge of the Company of Lepers, as we Leprechauns became affectionately known, and earned an extra £25 a day for the privilege!

“Get into disorder there.” I would shout. We would have a bit of a giggle over this.  And “Get those ears sharpened.”  To make us more leper-like we were, each morning, equipped with our individual moulded pixie ears, which had to be stuck on. Some of us had snub noses and wigs and beards.

The story, I think, dealt around a war between the Leprechauns and the Fairies (an effete bunch).

We Lepers, anyone from 30 to an unbelievable 87, had been picked for our obnoxiousness; ugliness, basic brutality and appalling BO and were ordered by the A/D to ‘just be yourselves.’

The Fairies, who numbered around 300, were a different kettle of poisson. For the most part they were aged between 18 and thirty, were blond, beautiful, and very white of face (having been plastered with some white gunge). They seemed very sweet of nature though we were to discover this was not quite the case. Their silver armour perfectly reflected the radiant blue of their ravishing multicoloured wings that shimmered in the sunlight.

Well, you will know some of the sort of chaps that are drawn to the profession, so I am sure you will understand that these Fairy fellas created the most massive problem within my ranks.

We were paired off to fight. Leper versus Fairy; but from the start it wasn’t going to be easy.

“I think mine’s too, too sweet.  I just refuse to hit him.” I heard one of my Lepers whisper.

“So’s mine!” said his friend. “I’ve got his phone number and if he gets hurt in the slightest way I’m going to have very strong words with the director.  They’re only boys really.  Honestly, it’s just too much!”

“Action,” shouted the director.

“Really. Now?” asked one.

“Must we?” said another.

Yes. ACTION,” bawled the director.

“Come on lads,” I shouted, “let’s show them what we’re made of. Attack!”

I raised my stick high. It was time for this fearless leader of this bunch of …….ers, who by now was the theme to many a camp fire story, to lead them on.

I went at my Fairy (who actually was a very nice boy, and, yes, I do have his phone number and address!) hammer and tongs, mauling, hitting, fighting, and falling.

My superb leadership paved the way and everyone around me started shouting and waving their weapons.  Wonderful, I thought how my fine boys react when their warrior leader shows them the way.  But it was then I noticed that far from my lepers hitting the Fairies, they were hitting each other for each was trying to stop the other from bruising their respective fairy.

“Enough!” came a call from the A/D off battlefield. “Will you Lepers please stop acting like a bunch of Fairies and just get on with it.”

So we did.

In the heat of the battle, thick in the melee, with the screams of the injured and assistant directors all around us, I slipped and, momentarily blinded by a cluster of powder bombs lobbed into the frenzy, fell heavily, rolled on to my drum, and smashed into the shrouded camera.

“Ouch.  What’s that doing there?”

“Filming this you twit.” said the director. “Oh, cut.”

“Oh yes. Here and here,” squealed a Leper helpfully pointing to a scratch.

“Me too,” said another.

“And me!” said another squeezing at a gash the size of an eyelash.

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Hours later; and hours of fighting passed. The problem was that not all the Fairies liked being called Fairies and kept fighting back.  When told to ‘please play dead for Heavens sake and just LIE DOWN’ by the enraged director, they wouldn’t.

Eventually, as it came close to wrapping time, order was restore and the story line reinstated. The battle was a complete victory for the Lepers. Every Fairy lay dead.  Likewise was the battle just as victorious for the Fairies for every Leper lay dead – from fatigue one said. Both sides were annihilated. All 750 combatants lay dead.

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“More corpses here and there please!” shouted the A/D. “Come on rise up! We want them up there too a bit further away. Look, do try and understand. I WANT THE ALLEY covered, covered in dead.”

For those of us who had died in near as faultless and as photogenically exquisite position as was possible there was nothing to complain about so we lay basking in the sunshine, waiting for the valley to fill with living dead and strove fond ways to amuse ourselves.

Lazily we blew through old bits of grass in imitation of dying rabbits, or watched the clouds slowly passing over. We counted the jet trails in the sky wondering where the planes were headed while others, still in fighting mood flicked sheep poo at each other.

But as time went by with nothing much happening we knew this could only be the last take of the day. We also knew that in order to get changed and be signed off we would eventually have to head up the top end of he valley. So slowly, inch by inch, each ‘corpse’ crept a little closer to its rim, away from the battleground and closer to ‘home’.

“STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!” came a firm but distant command. So we did.

Setting this scene was taking an extraordinary long time.

Then to my right I heard a voice. I didn’t think there was anyone close to me. It came from out of the blue, or ‘the green’, for it came from behind a high local tussock. It was the voice of a real leprechaun – it’s the troot oim tellin yer . A real live Irish voice it was, and what this tiny, hidden fellow was saying, and sighing every so often, was, “Will it be today we’ll be filmin’ then?”

Joe Hepworth C 2010