by Ben Collins
Our heroes were aiming to make the 750-mile journey on one tankful, in a real-time assessment of fuel economy. The first to arrive would join the ranks of other luminaries – such as Kermit the Frog and Ken Dodd– to light the coastal resort’s Big Candle. If none of them made it, The Stig would step into the breach.
The logistics of tracking all the way across Europe with three crews was not to be underestimated. I brought in pro drivers to pedal the crews aboard three supercharged Range Rovers. It was still a colossal workload because the whole race was effectively filmed live. There would be no pick-ups.
Clarkson set off aboard a twin turbo Jaguar XJ6 TDVI, which had a range of 655 miles on a light foot. He didn’t have a light foot. May drove a Subaru Legacy Diesel with a range of 706 miles, while Hammond went for a puny three-cylinder VW Polo Bluemotion, made largely of Lycra, with a range of 740 miles.
Jeremy rightly figured he’d run dry well short of Blackpool and opted for the longer, motorway route to avoid gas-guzzling traffic jams. Hammond took the direct route, the downside being he would burn fuel traversing hills. May chose something in between.
I arrived with ‘my’ crew at Blackpool’s central bus terminal and hopped off the National Express in the white suit. The Stig’s day out in Blackpool began in the theme park. Whilst the presenters sweated traffic, I rode in a teacup through the House of Horrors. Whilst they did complicated sums about fuel consumption, I sat through a magic show, marvelling at the sparkly lights in the ceiling and the strange folk plucking rabbits from hats. Then I met a palm reader on the Pier who couldn’t see my future through the white glove. She was a sweet, beautifully rounded lady with an all-year tan and mandatory headscarf.
‘I can’t read him,’ she kept saying. ‘Not unless I look into his eyes or see his hands …’
The director wouldn’t hear of it. ‘He never takes his gloves or helmet off. Not even when he goes to sleep.’
I lifted my visor a tad. ‘Oooooooh,’ she said, ‘you’ve a bright future …’
More please. ‘You’ll be wealthy …’
OK …
‘You’re at a big crossroads. You must leave the old path before choosing.’
Ouch.
I snapped my visor shut before she got me fired. The truth was that I had been wondering what the hell I was doing with my life. Here I was, wearing a comic strip costume, having the palms of my gloves read in a seaside resort. I was having a great time – and perhaps that should have been all that mattered – but I felt like I was losing sight of the big picture. I was meant to be racing, not mincing around.
Before I could take these psychic revelations too seriously, some joss stick incense wafted across my visor, my glove’s Velcro fastener got caught in a drape and I sent a cassette stall flying. All I could hear was the crew pissing themselves with laughter as mystic Meg chased after me, prattling on about the spirit world.
We moved on to the Pepsi Max at Pleasure Beach. Known as ‘The Big One’, it had a drop of 205 feet, a top speed of 74mph and generated 3.5G in the corners. The fairground staff treated us like royalty; they allowed us to take over the ride for an hour. A couple of dummy runs were needed to make sure that the rearward-facing camera was bolted on securely, and then I got on with a small group of enthusiastic holidaymakers.
The ride jolted, tipped and climbed vertically. Soon the Ferris wheel below was the size of a thimble. I hated heights, but decided that if The Stig wasn’t driving the rollercoaster he would be bored witless, so for his sake I pretended to fall asleep as the car began to plummet.
With my head down, all I could see through the visor was a narrow strip of the pleasure metropolis below. My stomach made its apologies and parted company with the rest of me as the car fell endlessly from the sky. Then I was hurled violently to the right as it banked hard left. I managed to maintain the same apparently nonchalant pose for the duration of the ride, never looking up but using every muscle I possessed to stay in the seat. The director was very pleased with the footage. So pleased that I went out a further four times, head down. And I got paid.
‘That’s a tough job you’ve got there, Stig,’ commented the bloke behind me.
‘Hellish,’ I replied. ‘But somebody’s got to do it.’
People were fantastically patient as they waited for us to clear off their ride. We did a bunch of photos with them and headed back into the fairground. The crew were busy filming background shots when I noticed a giant chipmunk ahead. He pounded a furry paw against his chest, Tarzan-style, then pointed at me. The Stig freaked out. Ben Joiner brought his camera to bear as I froze in my tracks, turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.
The chipmunk gave chase as The Stig scarpered over a bridge, looking frantically over his shoulder until he made good his escape. Unfortunately the presenters didn’t run out of gas after all, so their dreary piece on fuel economy took precedence in the edit over my Oscar-winning performance.
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 kn
ickers. 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 give us a clear corridor. We blew through red lights and roundabouts all the way back to the first cold beer of the day. What a night.
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 put your nose out of joint.’
We fenced for a bit until he finally admitted it was Michael Schumacher. ‘We’re dressing him up as The Stig to do a lap in the Ferrari FXX. He’s the only one allowed to drive that little beauty, so it throws a big smokescreen around the whole identity thing.’ They hadn’t yet worked out how they were going to take it from there, but needed me along for some other bits and pieces.
I couldn’t wait to see the seven times F1 Champion sipping a mouldy coffee outside our decrepit cabin.
I got down to Dunsfold early for some covert filming. What happened next took my burgeoning identity crisis to another level. Schumacher had flatly refused to drive the Liana, so they wanted to film me pretending to be him pretending to be The Stig, driving the reasonably priced car.
‘Have you told Michael what we’re up to?’
‘Oh Lord, no.’
I put on Michael’s Stig suit (which had different logos on the forearms and shoulders) and brought the Suzuki to the start line. We scanned the shot list. One involved spearing off the circuit, taking out one of the cameras and probably smashing the windscreen in the process. I rubbed my hands together and got stuck into some good, old-fashioned demolition.
Half an hour later the mission was accomplished and the footage whisked away for James to edit.
I switched back into my Stig outfit and jumped into the new Lotus Evora. It was a fantastic little car. The intrusive understeer that undermined the bony Loti of the past was gone; it looked and handled like a little Ferrari.
I ran hard for about eight laps and then the runway was cleared of all traffic. Our star guest duly arrived in his private jet, blissfully unaware of the filming that had already taken place, and he and his PR people were driven across to their motorhome. He saw me walking by and turned, puzzled, to one of the producers. ‘But I thought I am the Stig now?’
The FXX was created by dipping an Enzo in a vat of dark matter. It emerged boasting 812 horsepower, super aggressive F1 carbon brakes, slick racing tyres and additional wings to glue it to the tarmac. Who better to drive it than the man who inspired the design of the F1 car on which it was based? Of the thirty built, Schumacher’s was the only one liveried completely in black and without a stripe.
I met him briefly at the start line. His skin was like velvet and he had the cocksure, carefree demeanour of someone who’d been there, won that and didn’t need to wear the T-shirt. I doubt he heard much of what I said over the high-pitched howl of the V12 being warmed up next to us, but he got the gist so we both mounted up.
I pulled my Jaguar XF alongside Alex, our producer with the bedroom eyes. ‘I can’t believe you pulled this off.’
‘Sheer luck. He’s in the UK promoting Bacardi’s Drink Responsibly road safety campaign.’
Hot engines never like being kept waiting for camera crews to organise themselves an
d I knew Michael would want to go. Sure enough, he began slipping the FXX towards Alex, who tried in vain to stand his ground.
With a nod to the champ I led us out. I went carefully at first so he could pick out the white lines marking the course, then built up some speed on the second lap. He stayed fairly close behind, occasionally dropping back a little and doing his own thing. By the third lap I was going as fast as the Jag could manage.
In spite of my best efforts to turn its safety systems off, the XF kept trying to stabilise itself by activating its brakes in the middle of the corners. The F1 uber champ followed me patiently as I wallowed through the turns, apparently braking in all the wrong places. His Ferrari was practically idling.
At the end of the third and final recce lap my brakes were boiling, which sent the system into a complete panic. As I sped into the penultimate corner, the ABS kicked in so I couldn’t slow down properly. The Jag cocked its leg and dropped two wheels on the dirt as I came out the other side. A shower of crud and stones flew into the air and my shoulders stiffened when I saw Michael’s own personal, immaculate two million dollar supercar less than a length from my tail. He whipped left to miss the flying debris and I exited the track stage right to join the rescue crews at the fire station. He must have thought I was some new breed of dickhead.
He blasted around the track a few more times, came through the final bend and put on a little flurry with a spin across the line. He climbed out, had a brief discussion with the Ferrari mechanics and then strolled off to take an hour’s lunch. So we all stopped too.
Michael was taking to his new role with Teutonic gusto. After interviewing him, Jason Barlow, a former TG presenter who now worked on the magazine, shot me an awestruck glance. ‘He’s taken to this pretty seriously, y’know,’ he said in his Irish lilt. ‘I asked him what it was like being The Stig and he told me how tricky it was flyin’ back and forth from the Grand Prix circuit to make it in time for the studio.’