NIGEL Edgington, a plumber by trade, is sitting on top of a camel called Jezebel in the dizzying heat of the Nevada desert. Nigel does not look at ease. He seems a tad nervous.

Jezebel, on the other hand, appears to be angry. She is snorting, stamping her feet and moving in such a manner as if she wishes to dislodge Nigel, perhaps even catapult him from her back.

Even by the standards of camels – ornery creatures at the best of times – Jezebel, we are later informed, is an especially temperamental beast who is known to have bitten people with her huge brown tombstone teeth.

Nigel, without question, has drawn the short straw.

I am nearby in The Bucket of Blood saloon, dripping sweat beneath a ridiculous cowboy hat, drinking a pint of cold beer.

I wander onto the balcony and bellow something along the lines of: “Go on Nigel; slay ‘em – you can do it, son” before returning for a swift top-up.

And then, after much spitting, coughing, belching and an impressive discharge of wind – from the camels, that is – they are off.

Galloping beneath a blazing sun with sage-bush dotted hills as a spectacular John Wayne-like backdrop, several ships of the desert hurtle in a lop-sided fashion but with surprising speed amidst yelps of encouragement and hoots of laughter from thousands of spectators.

Nigel is holding on for dear life. He has borrowed some jockey gear and really looks the business – a cross between Lawrence of Arabia and Lester Piggott – as he manfully drives his mount forward.

He is in the middle of the pack as the humped creatures awkwardly vie for position. You will never guess what happens next. Rookie camel jockey Nigel, all the way from Gorse Hill, inches into the lead and noses it on the line. I am with a handful of English journalists here to cover the event and we howl with delight and clunk our glasses, spilling foamy beer.

We hurl our preposterous, newly-acquired ten gallon hats into the air. The Americans look at us as if we are mad. They think we are Australian.

So why is Swindon father-of-three Nigel Edgington, 25, racing camels in the old gold mining town of Virginia City in the summer of ’81?

It is all down to booze. In Nigel’s case, Smirnoff vodka.

As a publicity generating promotion Smirnoff, in the early ‘80s, has a splendid idea. It launches a Great Dreams competition.

Some 3,000 people enter in the hope of winning the chance to fulfil a lifetime’s ambition.

Nigel becomes aware of this while drinking with his mates at The Baker’s Arms in Stratton.

He throws his hat into the ring and is among 10 winners. This is hardly surprising when you consider that Nigel’s dream is to throw himself off an 80ft tree with vines tied to his ankles and to miss the ground by a few inches.

He wants to take the Pentecost Leap – the original bungee jump whereby natives of this far-flung South Pacific island chuck themselves off trees to celebrate the annual emergence of the yam crop.

Nigel recalls a grainy TV documentary when he was a child and, in his own words, he has been “dying to have a crack at it ever since.”

I meet Nigel for the first time at the Great Dreams reception at a London hotel. It is soon apparent that Nigel, all 5ft 4ins of him, is a) a top bloke and b) up for it.

He tells me: “The idea is to hurl yourself from a tree and miss the ground by a fraction of an inch.

“You might even skim the ground with your nose,” he adds, enthusiastically.

The Adver runs the story and our daredevil hero is christened Nutty Nigel.

Laden with gifts of alcohol, two hardy representatives from Smirnoff’s PR team make their way to Pentecost Island, about 1,000 miles from Australia and after much haggling in a mud hut, seal the deal with the local chief.

But having accepted case-loads of vodka and wads of cash, the chief, months later – presumably when all the Smirnoff has vanished and possibly nursing a hangover – calls the whole thing off. Nigel’s hopes of a potential early grave are cruelly dashed.

A new challenge is swiftly required. Crocodile wresting is considered. Eventually, Smirnoff and Nigel agree: he will go to the famous old Wild West town of Virginia City and compete in the grandly titled World Camel Racing Championships – an immense sporting event which follows hot on the heels of the National Reno Gay Rodeo Championships.

We are deposited at a Carson City casino and wend our way up the dusty hills to Virginia City, 6,000 feet above sea level, where the event, held over several days, takes place.

My job is to send back daily reports which appear in the Adver under the banner: “Nutty Nigel’s Camel Capers.”

The American media love Nigel. They can barely discern a word of his thick Wiltshire brogue but as the first Briton to compete in the camel races – which have been running since 1959 – he becomes an instant celebrity.

As the tension mounts, Nigel receives some sound advice from fellow camel jockeys: “They’re intelligent animals – much more so than horses. Treat them right and they’ll treat you right. But they can be erratic – not mention downright mean.”

It is darned bad luck, though, that he draws the infamous Jezebel for the first race. The other jockeys fail to hide their amusement. She really is a minx.

Insured by Smirnoff for £50,000 – a lot of dosh in those days – first-timer Nigel, against all odds, cajoles Jezebel to an unlikely victory.

Dismounting in triumph, he is congratulated in time-honoured fashion by fellow jockeys who shower him in camel dung. “I smell but I’m happy,” says the breathless Brit. He certainly hums.

Back at Jungle Jim’s in Carson City, we celebrate with tequila body slammers all round as Nigel basks in glory: “I was holding on for my life,” he grins.

“All I could see was the camel’s head bobbing up and down. I thought I was going to be thrown off.”

His tail well and truly up, a rampant Nigel romps to victory in his second race but can’t pull off a hat-trick.

Everyone agrees, two out of three wins for a complete novice is sterling stuff. Sadly, it doesn’t earn him a place in the final but he is rewarded with an honorary induction into the International Order of Camel Jockeys.

President and champion jockey Bob Rogers says: “Nigel is a plucky little guy.”

He presents him with the order’s highest award – a lump of lacquered camel dung attached to a chain. Only a handful of these exist, Bob assures us.

“I’ll keep it for the rest of my life,” says Nigel, overcome at the generosity and goodwill he has encountered way out west.