"This boy is not a hippy," declared Sherry, my Bombay taxi driver. "He is a good boy from a good family. He will not cheat you."

Victor Pereira, wig maker to the stars, was impressed. He proudly showed me his hairpiece range, including an alarming bright ginger perm, before recommending a long blonde mane. I was transformed into an ageing heavy metal fan from Zurich.

And that was perfect. Swiss looks, rarely a passport to success, were apparently valued in Bollywood - and short of the casting couch, I was prepared to do anything to land a movie role. Anyone can take a shot at celluloid fame, even on a fortnight's holiday - India churns out around 760 films year, around 300 of them in the Bombay dream factory - and European extras, particularly blondes, are in regular demand.

Quite where I'd fit in wasn't clear. Despite increasingly slick production values, most movies remain epic escapist fantasies: ripping yarns with a tried and tested formula of doe-eyed ladies, over-the-top acting and squealing Hindi soundtracks.

Still, you can improve your chances by following a plan; this wasn't a random quest for stardom. Before departure I headed to my local corner shop, where I learned it would help to wear a wet sari or to change my surname to Khan. Idols included Aamir Khan, Shah Rukh Khan and Salman Khan, reportedly arrested for "less than sympathetic treatment of endangered wildlife." I, however, was lumbered with the distinctly unglamorous Belcher.

Unfortunate, but not fatal. I continued to gen up once I arrived in Bombay. Local papers are crammed with industry news. The Mumbai Age informed me that a producer had just been shot in an underworld hit, and a cinema owner in Duragh had been killed by 15 men who "hurled bombs at him." Sadly, there were no reports of surging demand for European extras.

But the campaign was still in its infancy. You need to learn some Bollywood basics, so I attended a screening of Gundaraj at the Sangan movie house. Recent Indian films have won acclaim - Lagaan is tipped for this year's foreign film Oscar - but this was dire with ludicrous jumps in plot and scenery. It was apparently choreographed by a myopic amphetamine addict. Still, I now realised I was in possession of two crucial qualities: a floppy fringe and generous girth.

The next step was to ring a contact. It was amazing how asking around Indian friends at home had quickly revealed someone who knew someone connected to the industry. I phoned a producer I had been assured would be helpful, and lied about my qualities: "My mother is Swiss. I speak fluent French."

So did he. "I'll call back, Ian." He ignored my calls for the rest of the week. Very LA.

It was time to play my joker. Sporting the hired wig, and clutching a bar of creamy Swiss chocolate, I lurked around the Salvation Army hostel, on the corner of Mereweather Road and Best Street. Sweat streamed down my face; a madman attacked my locks with a "magic comb". I suffered for my art. But it worked. At 9.30, Mr Johnny B Francis, recruiter of European extras, arrived at the door.

He has fixed roles for Europeans, Africans and Chinese for the last 24 years - and the hostel is his main hunting ground. The British are top of the list for English-speaking parts, unless "the chewing gum way of speaking" is required, in which case it's Americans.

There was no instant joy. He would find out what was available and contact me; sometimes roles only came up at 11pm the night before a shoot. With success still tantalisingly out of reach, I asked Sherry to take me to RK Film Studios in his ancient Fiat. We chugged past Navshaktis, a VD sexologist and the Sion Piles Clinic (a grubby shed by the side of the road), and arrived at the gates.

A bit of forward planning would have helped here - so phone first, say you're a Bollywood fan over on holiday from Britain and would a tour be possible - but I took a flier. Flashing my Bosnian press card, which expired in 1988, I was ushered past security to the set of a film called Censor.

0n stage, amid a lurid recreation of the Oscar ceremony, Govinda, a genuine Bollywood heart throb, was wiggling wildly, surrounded by dancers in saris and, bizarrely, cheerleading costumes: a fusion of two diverse cultures. He wore a ton of jewellery, a perma-smile and the fringe of Hugh Grant on fertiliser.

Dancing over, I was introduced to Dev Anand, Censor's writer, director and star. An actor and film-maker for over half a century, he's known as India's Gregory Peck. In a scenario unlikely to be repeated in Hollywood, he invited us to his dressing room to explain the plot - an attack on the strict Indian censorship system - and ask us for lunch. An hour later he was offering to write me into the script of the 100m rupee (around £1.5m) movie, which was to be an international release. I should return in two days with a dark suit.

Promising but not cast iron. So, in order to maximise my chances, I headed to Film City in Goregaon East, the largest studios in Asia. A friend of a friend had suggested I should see the shooting of Hera Pheri, a comedy crime caper. It had at least two British actors, including a glamour model whom I discovered rolling around on the floor with a six foot python. After a brief chat, the urbane, cravat-wearing producer, Feroze Nadiadwala, offered me a role. I was to play the stereotypical Brit. I was to be an arms dealer.

24 hours later, during which time Johnny B Francis had found me another crowd scene part, I was back at Censor, clad in a tuxedo borrowed from the hotel concierge. I had metamorphosed into a Hollywood hunk, handing over the Oscar to Dev Anand. After that, all I had to do was smile and take one step back.

In true, high-speed Bollywood spirit, there was a single rehearsal - I wasn't the only rookie, the secretary from the US embassy was also on stage - before a shout of "Action!".

"Cut!" I had stepped back too far.

"Action!"

"Cut!" I had repeated the mistake. By anyone's standards, this was truly inept.

"Action!"

Perfect. Wrap. I had travelled 6,000 miles, crossed two continents and five time zones, and my moment of glory was over in 15 seconds.

Which left just enough time to reach Film City. Tragically the arms dealer scene had been shot the previous night. My only speaking role - dubbed into Hindi, selling Russian guns to an Indian in a Moroccan restaurant - would not be happening. But all was not lost. "Ian, just in time," shouted Feroze as I walked through the door. "You are a shady character. Take the money and count is as you walk across the restaurant."

There was no rehearsal. The cameras rolled and 30 seconds later we had another wrap. In just four days I had appeared in two films and become big - well, perhaps small to medium - in Bollywood. The third crowd role was cancelled, but hey, as my taxi driver said, that's showbiz.

Censor was recently released in the UK, heading to video at indecent speed. The fate of Hera Pheri is unknown.

Ways to go

You can fly to Bombay for £1064 return plus £46.90 tax with Air India: 0207 495 7950 (for cheaper specials check with bucket shops or charter companies).

When you're there, contact Film City (0091228401533) or RK Studio (0091 225563252).