Memory Lane

In November 1978 I found myself, utterly panicstricken, inside the head of a 30ft-high dragon.

The creature was a giant model for Pete’s Dragon, a film Disney was promoting as its latest blockbuster.

A Disney publicist, I was to climb inside the head and pull the levers working the ears, eyes and smoking nostrils in the annual Lord Mayor’s Show. (This year’s show, due to take place on 14th November, has been cancelled.)

The day arrived, cold and clear. Somewhere in the City, I clambered up the neck and assumed my position on the tiny bicycle seat. Everything seemed in order. The marching band in front of us moved off and we followed, our speakers belting out Disney songs.

It was only as we approached St Paul’s Churchyard that events took a turn for the worse. The seat decided to jerk downwards to the right, forcing me to grab at a metal strut.

I now had only one hand to operate four controls. Almost horizontal, I frantically tried to work the eyes and the ears. Then the seat snapped off completely, leaving me hanging by one arm like a stranded chimp. I then let go of the strut. Landing on the ladder, which buckled and broke beneath me, I managed to clutch at another metal bar.

Aware that this infernal creature hadn’t blinked, wagged its ears or snorted for a good three minutes, I hauled myself back up and lunged at the dry-ice button.

Unfortunately, the canister swivelled towards my face, blasting smoke into my eyes and filling the interior with a Victorian pea-souper.

This wasn’t going as planned. To the sound of cheering crowds, I groped blindly for the levers. This proved to be disastrous as my foot slipped, snapping another metal bar and causing me to tumble down the neck. I was now wedged in the blasted dragon’s larynx.

The dry ice started to clear and I looked up. It was a scene from hell. I had two options: I could risk life and limb climbing up the wreckage or stay put, have a fag and wait for help. I reached for my packet of Embassys.

In the event, I was congratulated afterwards. Nowadays, I can’t begin to imagine what Health and Safety would have said.

By David Treloar, Southfields, London, who receives £50

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