Being an extra on a TV show is easy… isn’t it?

My younger sister is a television director. I’m very proud of her. One of the shows she makes happens to be a favourite of my son’s. I can’t tell you the name of the show in case I get her in trouble with her bosses by writing about it. But it’s a good show.

She recently invited my son along to the set to work as an extra in a crowd scene. I accompanied him to the set because he needed a lift. When I got there, they assumed I would also be working as an extra, so I got herded into the crowd scene with him. It was fascinating to see how a big-budget telly programme got put together. 

Mind you, it’s pretty boring being an extra. We just had to stand around all day, occasionally following instructions from an assistant director who would bellow things through a microphone like: “Act happy!” “Act sad!” I eventually drifted off into a daydream.

I was snapped out of it by the sound of my name being called through the microphone. “SAM! SAM! SAM!” the assistant director was shouting. I looked around. She couldn’t possibly mean me. But then I saw her pointing straight at me. I don’t get easily embarrassed, but I felt my face flush.

There were about 100 people on the set, and suddenly they were all looking at me. The star actors were standing nearby, and I heard them muttering, “Who’s he?” “Do you mean me?” I eventually stuttered. “Yes, you!” replied the assistant director. “You need to dial it right down!” “Dial what down?” I asked. I genuinely didn’t know what she meant. I am not familiar with theatrical terminology. “The acting. You don’t need to do so much. Just try to blend in to the background.”

Me? Overacting? I wasn’t even under-acting. I was just standing there!

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The actors continued to mutter between themselves, probably frustrated by the nobody extra who was trying his best to get the director’s attention by mugging for the camera. The other extras shot me sideways glances as if to say, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

I wanted to tell them that I hadn’t been mugging. That I didn’t want to get the director’s attention because the director was my little sister. And that, in any case, I was only there to keep my son company. That I didn’t have any interest in being an actor. That I was already a successful writer. But I realised that if I continued to protest, I would just make the whole situation more humiliating than it already was.

So I swallowed my pride, apologised to everyone, and they reran the take. This time, I went out of my way to show no expression on my face whatsoever.

In the next break, I tried to approach my sister to ask why she had delivered me such embarrassing feedback via a proxy. But a member of the production team blocked my way to her, seemingly appalled that a mere extra was trying to communicate with the maestro. “B-but I’m her brother!” I insisted. He gave me a “pull the other one” look and sent me away.

Later, presumably to make up for things, my sis invited me to her VIP enclosure for lunch. She told me that the feedback hadn’t been issued by her but by another senior executive on the set. I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. Just as she didn’t know whether to believe me when I said that I hadn’t been attempting to act and just wanted to get through the day without anyone noticing me. After all, she knows me as a lifelong show-off.  

In all honesty, even I can’t be sure of that. Maybe my appetite for attention is so insatiable that I no longer even notice the ways in which it continually manifests itself in my daily life. Either way, I have decided I won’t be applying for my equity card any time soon.

His new book Stop Sh**ting Yourself: 15 Life Lessons That Might Help You Calm the F*ck Down is out now (Little, Brown, £22) and is available from the Big Issue shop on bookshop.org, which helps to support Big Issue and independent bookshops.

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