I DIDN’T realise it at the time, but my debut as an extra was the supporting artiste equivalent of being shortlisted for the Man Booker. It was for an ITV drama, and my brother and I were picked from the crowd to be the children of prospective buyers for a house. I was instructed to say, on being shown around a bedroom, “Wow, bags this one!” I was only 8 at the time, too young to appreciate that this line — delivered in a monotone — was a very special privilege. It elevated me from being a background artist to a walk-on. This was something that some extras wait their lives for.

A sporadic extra-ing career began. Then, five years ago, myself and 20 others were asked to be the background in a club scene. We arrived at the club at 10am and spent the next six hours sitting on the sticky speakers, nibbling the edges of polystyrene cups of tea and watching men in puffa jackets lay gaffer tape on the floor.

Our moment came. The music started, the clapperboard snapped, and we began to shimmy across the room, piling into shot as the camera panned to give the impression of a packed, euphoric dance floor. When the result was shown on TV, I couldn’t have been on screen for more than four seconds, but it seemed to be hours, the camera lingering cruelly on my flailing limbs and lunatic grimace. That was the end for me.

Though the intoxication of celebrity still wafts down from the star’s trailer, it is a world ripe for satire. French and Saunders have done it, and now Ricky Gervais has chosen extras as the subject for his next TV series. What happens when you put a bunch of proud, delusional and socially challenged people in a situation where their job is to go unnoticed? Suppressed egos erupt in the hours sat shivering on the obligatory double-decker bus, waiting for their call to mumble “rhubarb” or visit the catering van (extras always eat last).

You have to be made of strrong stuff. Vita Gottlieb, 29, who extras a few days a month, divides her fellow workers into three distinct types. There are the Die Hards: wannabe actors who live in hope of getting a line. They stick together, spending time in between takes, comparing the catering with that on their last job and keeping a beady eye on their overtime. Then there are the Unemployables: socially dysfunctional people who don’t have any aspirations to act; in fact, they don’t have any aspirations at all. They spend their free time trying to make friends with the flustered, unreceptive assistant directors. Finally, there are those who see it as a means to an end, people with — often creative — jobs which allow them a few days off, and who see the waiting around as an opportunity to work on their novels/screenplays/clothes designs while getting paid.

Being an extra used to require membership of the Film Artists Association, but since Margaret Thatcher made closed shops illegal, the floodgates have opened. Anyone can do it. There are dozens of agencies; the large ones, such as Casting Collective and Ray Knight, have around 2,500 people on their books.

Most aspirants, though, hedge their bets. Ray Donn, a sixtysomething professional supporting artiste (“I prefer ‘noddie’ ”), is enrolled with ten. As for pay, the FAA sets the daily rate as £69, with £25 extra for a “Wow, bags this one!” type line. The BBC pays around £73. With overtime it averages £100, of which the agent takes around 15 per cent. And then there are special action supplements. Swimming, driving or riding a bike nets you an extra, say, £20; having to stand in “inclement weather” is £10. If you agree to have your hair cut, it’s £25.

There are certain types, too, who tend to get more work. According to the Ray Knight agency, men aged between 25-40 are popular, because they can play policemen, soldiers, thugs, and so on. For women, it is useful to have “period hair” — in other words, no dye jobs or asymmetrical fringes. For both, it helps to have an adaptable look. Ray Donn, “a Jewish East End lad”, can pass as Cypriot or Arab; his glasses make him suitable for playing doctors and solicitors. A resemblance to David Suchet’s Poirot gives him a sideline in lookalike work.

As for the chance of becoming a real star, some agencies, such as seekingfame.com, fuel unrealistic expectations with real zeal. Frustrated with wasting away your life wishing you were a somebody, asks its website, while the recorded message line (£1.50 a minute, average call 5 mins), advocates extra work as “a springboard to stardom”. At the more respected end of the industry, however, the consensus is very much the opposite. Mike Martin, in his book Noddies — The Film Extra’s Guide, says: “For anyone nurturing the slightest desire to be discovered, it is a definite no-no.”

Ray Donn agrees. “There are hundreds of out-of-work actors out there who haven’t jobs, so why would they give work to a background artist?” In the industry, there is an unflattering, “once an extra, always an extra” stigma attached. “We do tend to see them as a herd,” says the BBC producer Kate Harwood.

Alex McIntosh, a 29-year-old actor, prefers to use a temping agency when between work. “Extra-ing doesn’t get you brownie points. God, definitely not.” Still, Donn admits, a tiny bit of hope springs eternal. “There’s always a chance that this time, you could say a line.”

And for Die Hards, there are always a few success stories to cling to. A young extra called Louise Germaine was spotted in the background by Dennis Potter, and went on to star in Lipstick on His Collar. Vita Gottlieb, too, was singled out by Richard Curtis in Love Actually and given the role of Keira Knightley’s best friend in the wedding scene. As a means-to-an-ender, though, she found the attention embarrassing. “

At the time it was quite exciting, but I really regretted it,” she says. “Everyone kept on saying, ‘I saw you!’ I don’t want to be seen, I want to be in the background.”

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