“I’d shoot the whole thing on PD150 to give it a verite feel.”
You get to a certain age and life starts eluding you. It begins with the subtle nuances, bits of the conversation that pass you by; then, almost overnight, you can’t keep up with the contemporary allusions, it’s years since you knew what the number one was, and you realize, to your horror, that you’ve taken to wearing Marks & Spencer jeans (with added Lycra). Nothing can stop you ending up with all the social awareness, tact and perspicacity of a High Court judge. “You’ve lost me, I’m afraid.”
She smiles indulgently. “You’ve probably seen some of my other work. Kids with Cancer? People said a lot of flattering things about it.”
“I don’t think…”
“Gerald to Beryl? I was on the long list for a BAFTA.”
Now that does ring a bell. “Wasn’t it about the sex-change chappie? Didn’t he end up doing panto?”
“Beryl was a very brave lady,” she says, pointedly. “We became really close.”
And suddenly I’m thinking John Hurt; suddenly I’m thinking amusing skits on Children in Need; suddenly I’m thinking Best Newcomer. “Come on, Nikki, don’t keep me in suspenders. What exactly did you have in mind?”
It appears Ms Hardbody is as excited as I am. She vacates her stool and joins me on the other side of the table, sliding across the fake leather towards me. I sense the warm promise of thighs. “I want to make a documentary about Michael. I want people to understand exactly what it means to be a quadriplegic at Oxford.”
I wouldn’t have lasted two minutes in the business if I hadn’t perfected this simple technique. I believe young children have been known to survive immersion in the arctic waters by doing something similar. Whenever my agent (Bunny Michelmore at Bunny Michelmore Management) calls with bad news (‘Sorry, dear, the interest has cooled,’—‘Sorry, darling, they’ve decided to go with a name.’) I have learnt to put my whole body into a state of shutdown. It’s an invaluable way of preserving one’s dignity, and worked a treat when SOWINS said she didn’t love me any more. Which is why, even as we speak, my face looks like I’ve just heard a mildly amusing anecdote, when inside I’m as angry and confused as McEnroe after a bad line call. “You cannot be serious.”
“It’s got everything an award-winning documentary needs: a young guy who succeeds against all the odds, gorgeous setting – the Americans can’t get enough of Oxbridge – plus the whole human angle. It’s a really heart-warming story.”
If she dares to use the expression ‘life affirming’, I swear I shall spontaneously combust. I can just see her pitching the idea to the commissioning editor of Channel 4. “I don’t think that – ”
“And what great characters, Jesus! You’ve got his batty religious mum who’s still praying for a cure, the absent father we could go and doorstep, people love all that.”
Frankly, it all sounds about as entertaining as the annual digital rectal examinations for which I must submit myself when I reach the dreaded four o. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“And how, for the love of fuck, did he end up sharing his rooms with a failed…er, ‘resting’ actor? It’s Zeitgeist on toast. We’d climax the whole thing with his performance in Hamlet. It’d be just great, great television.”
The temporary paralysis is wearing off; low-level peevishness will soon give way to full-blown fury. “Look, Nikki, if it’s him you want, what are you doing talking to me?”
“You and Michael must have become pretty close.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“I would never try and be funny with a guy as on the ball as you.”
“Yes, well, it…”
She squelches her cigarette butt into the ashtray. “I don’t want to go ahead with anything unless Michael’s cool about it. The last thing I want is something in bad taste. I just thought that, with you two being so close, your input could be crucial.”
“In what way, exactly?”
Did I mention that, for a smoker, she has dazzling white teeth? “I’d love it if you could sound him out. Show him what a fantastic opportunity it would be.”
“I should have thought you’d make a pretty good job of that yourself.”
Somehow she manages to move even closer. “It needs to come from someone Michael trusts. I’ve had a few…setbacks lately.” She stares into her mineral water; I get this barely controllable urge to put my hand on her knee. “Of course, it didn’t help when Beryl…”
And now it’s all coming back to me. “That’s right; the poor bloke couldn’t handle his five minutes of fame. That’s why he – ”
“Beryl had a history of bipolar disorder. She was clinically depressed when we started filming. Her ex-wife told me as much at the funeral.”
“I’m sure that’s a great comfort to you.”
She straightens her back and runs her hands slowly down her torso, like a dancer in a pop video. “What would be very nice is if you could convince Michael to sign the consent forms. That way, if he does get cold feet (she smiles at the inappropriate metaphor), there won’t be very much he can do about it.”
My ex-wife maintained that I would exhume my grandmother and flog off her collection of antique thimbles for a cough and a spit in EastEnders. I think, for once, SOWINS would be proud of me. “Absolutely no way; Michael is a human being, not a piece of meat.” I inch sideways so that we’re no longer joined at the hip, and bring my hand down hard on the table like what’s-his-face in Ice Station Zebra, “I will not be a party to it. Thank God that some of us still have our artistic integrity intact. And anyway,” I say, remembering a hard-hitting article in the Daily Mail, “this so-called reality television is on the way out. I can’t see it lasting into the twenty-first century.”
She runs her tongue slowly across her top lip. “Well, that’s a pity. I had an idea that might have given your career a much needed boost.”
A shadow of doubt passes over the hostelry. “How do you mean…boost?”
“Forget it. You’re probably right. There’s a lot more to life than a BAFTA.”
“No, wait,” I say, seizing her by the wrist. “You might as well tell me what you had in mind.” (Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, after all.)
“I’ll be straight with you, Tim. I was thinking John Nettles, but listening to you – your passion, your quiet dignity—I wonder if maybe we should get you in to do the voice-over.”
And suddenly I’m back to Jacobi’s Claudius again. “R-R-Really?”
“Yes,” she shrugs. “Shame, that.”
“Now hang on a minute!” As you are probably aware, acting is about the toughest profession in the world. However, compared with making any headway in the voice-over game, it’s a stroll in the park with a Harrods picnic hamper. Only a highly select coterie (Jarvis, Jason, McShane, Briers, Coogan, Laurie and the Men Behaving Badly gang) are permitted to gorge themselves on the rich pickings to be had in voice-over land. “Perhaps I’ve been over-hasty.”
“Really?” she says, astonished yet delighted at the same time.
“Maybe disabled people deserve a prime-time platform.”
“You’re so right.”
I’m anxious to establish a few ground rules. “I take it that, as well as the voice-over, you’d want me to appear in this thing?”
“Absolutely,” she says, sucking on her slice of lemon and spitting the pips into her empty glass. “Of course, Michael would be the central focus of the piece, but you’d be a major player, no doubt about it.”
“Well. I’d have to speak to my agent, of course – Bunny Michelmore at Bunny Michelmore Management – but I think I can probably help you out.”
“That’s brilliant,” she says, patting me on my inner thigh, about halfway between my John Thomas and my knee. “I think we’re going to make a very good team.”
A pornographic image floats across the forefront of my mind. “Yes, indeed.”
“You’ll have a word with Michael then?”
“A
bsolutely,” I say, crossing my legs. “Mike says he thinks of me as an older brother. If I can’t talk him round, nobody can.”
I’m not self-deluded enough to actually believe this. However, I have an inkling that it may be in my best interests to let Ms Hardbody consider it so. Even if Michael didn’t hate my guts, I have little doubt he would view the prospect of television immortality with as much enthusiasm as a course of abseiling lessons. No, the way I see it, there’s only one person who’s got a hope in hell of making him see sense. And doubtless she’ll be phoning again before the evening’s out. Into her hands I shall condemn my fragile spirit.
∨ The Opposite Bastard ∧
7
What a Piece of Work is a Man
The Quadriplegic
Mum has turned into a pushy showbiz parent. She holds the contract in front of me, smiling like a goblin damned.
“That’s right, Michael,” she says. “Just sign here…………………and here…………………aaand here.”
“Isn’t it great, the way he does that?” says Nikki Hard-body, bending over me like one of those people who think they’re good with children. “Now, you are sure about this, aren’t you, Michael? I don’t want you getting into something you’re not happy with.”
“He’s sure,” says Mum, “aren’t you, love?”
“Yes, Mum, quite sure.” I’d rather drown in a reservoir of my own vomit than be part of this Bambi’s My Left Foot bollocks. Unlike practically everyone else in the world, my main ambition is not to make a turd of myself on TV. But since the poor cow’s never going to get to cry at my wedding, it’s the least I can do.
“Isn’t this exciting? Soon the whole world’s going to know about my wonderful son.”
“That’s right,” says Nikki, taking the contract and slipping it into her Gucci handbag. “And I have a hunch that the whole world is going to love Michael just as much as you do. You should have seen the great share we had for Pepe, the Boy with No Nose.”
“Yes,” says Mum. “My heart went out to the poor little mite.”
Mum’s been raiding the Littlewoods catalogue again. She’s gone and got herself a new flowery dress and baggy pink cardigan, because she doesn’t want to let me down. And she looks terrible. Back in the days when I was a real boy, we went on proper family holidays; a week in a guest house complete with half-board and tea- and coffee-making facilities in every room. Mum and Dad always dressed up for the evening meal; Dad stiff as hell in a jacket and tie, Mum in an almost fashionable dress and a gallon of the perfume she’s still wearing now. They looked so out of place that, even though I was only eight years old, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for them.
“I do look all right in this, don’t I?” says Mum. “It’s not too much, is it?”
It’s obvious that Nikki Hardbody isn’t even on nodding terms with the Littlewoods catalogue. “You look lovely, Valerie. You’re everything I could have wished for, and more.”
“You’ll make me blush,” says Mum, blushing.
“I don’t want you to think of me as a director,” says Nikki, “but as a friend. That’s what I love about this job. You get to meet such amazing people.”
Mum takes a paper tissue from her cardigan sleeve, and fusses about the mantelpiece, dusting the photograph of me and her with the Mayor of Croydon, and taking a quick peek in the mirror. “I’m all of a tizzy,” she says. “I’ve never been on the television before. Well, I was on Songs of Praise once, but all you could see was my hat.” She laughs, hopefully. “I say, all you could see was my hat.”
Nikki grabs her camera, like a psychopath reaching for a chainsaw. “Everyone feels nervous to start with. That’s why I always work with the PD150. There’s no crew getting under your feet all the time – just little me,” she smiles. “Don’t worry, after a while you won’t even know I’m there – just like Sister Bernadette.” She points the camera in my face. A red light comes on. “Now, we’ve got some lovely footage of Tim doing Michael’s colostomy bag. Why don’t I film the three of you having breakfast? Timothy,” she calls, “is that coffee ready yet?”
“Just coming,” booms De Niro. “Do you want to capture my entrance?” He’s turned into this really scary Stepford carer; he can’t do enough for me, and his conversation is peppered with 1970s superlatives and sycophantic banter – when the camera’s running, that is. “Here we are then. Do you know, Nikki, I’ve found this super little place in the covered market where they make a perfectly acceptable – light and crispy, but not too buttery – croissant. Why don’t I feed Mike, and you two can get on with your coffee?”
“Aren’t we forgetting something?” says Mum.
De Niro glances anxiously at the breakfast table. “I might have some cherry preserve somewhere.”
Mum always likes to give thanks where it’s due. “Michael, would you like to say grace?”
It’s a pity she’s not so quick to apportion blame. “Not really.”
Mum winks at Nikki. “Someone got out of bed the wrong side this morning, didn’t they, dear?” She bows her head and puts on her bank-manager-talking-to-an-important-customer voice. “Dear Lord, we thank you for this food. And we just pray that you will bless Nikki and the wonderful work that she’s going to be doing over the next couple of weeks. Amen.”
I’ve never had the courage to tell Mum I don’t believe in God. What’s the point? It would be as meaningless as if I decided to come out. I can’t do any of the things Christians are supposed to feel guilty about anyway. Telling a quadriplegic not to kill is like instructing a blind man never to look at pornography. Mind you, it doesn’t stop me having murderous thoughts from time to time.
Mum’s inspecting a tea towel with the words ‘A Gift From Poole’ on the front. “That’s done well, hasn’t it? Do you remember our holiday in Poole, Michael?”
“The one where Dad told you about Chelmsford, you mean?”
“Oh, was it?” says Mum, her face falling almost as quickly as Nikki can turn the camera in her direction and De Niro can launch himself into the frame. “I don’t remember.”
“Of course you do, Mum. It was our first – and last—family holiday after I became a crip.”
“I’ve told you not to use that word, Michael. You know I don’t like it.”
Sometimes her Pollyanna routine does my head in. “I think most women would remember the day their pathetic apology for a husband walked out on them, don’t you?” I say, addressing the camera directly now and really enjoying it. “You said you hoped he’d rot in hell, and after you’d blubbed for twenty minutes, that woman from the guest house gave you some brandy.”
I told you Mum was a cry-baby. “Stop it. Stop it right now.” The constant tears have gouged deep trenches in the side of her face. “You’re not filming this, are you?”
“Of course not,” says Nikki, although the red light still appears to be on. “Not if you aren’t happy with it.”
“I’m not,” sniffs Mum. “He gets like this sometimes. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to, it’s the medication, you see.”
“That’s right,” chips in De Niro. “I had an idea it might be the caffeine. Here, Mike, try some of this.” He tears off a piece of croissant and stuffs it down my throat. “I expect he’s still hungry, poor love.”
The Actor
Nikki wants to film the three of us enjoying a ‘relaxed picnic by the river’. Apparently, if you put people at their ease, they’re far more likely to spill their guts for the camera. Having practically ruptured myself humping Michael and his chair across acres of Flanders mud, I’m certainly in no mood to spill mine.
“OK, finish your strawberries,” says Nikki, “and then I’d like to do a little question-and-answer session. We’ll start with you, Valerie, and then move on to Michael.”
“Sorry, Nikki,” I say, not wanting to make her look incompetent, but at the same time knowing that it needs to be said, “you didn’t mention my good self. When would you like me to do my piece to camera?”
>
Nikki looks almost as delightful as a model from the Next catalogue. Her black cowl-neck sweater and classic Levi’s are in stark contrast to poor old Mrs Owen’s Blue Cross Day ensemble. “Sorry, Tim,” smiles Nikki, “we’ll do it later if you don’t mind. Valerie’s only with us today.”
“Can’t let the Women’s Prayer Group down, can I?” says Mrs Owen. “Not after all the wonderful things they’ve done for Michael.”
“Fine,” I say, almost meaning it, but still mindful of the Crimewatch Incident, “that way we’ll have more time.”
“Yes, well, if you could just move Michael over there a bit, Valerie can squeeze in next to the picnic basket.”
“Not a problem. If I plonk him by the tree you can get a tight little three shot.”
Although I prefer not to speak of the Crimewatch Incident, it has impacted hugely on my approach to screen acting. Beppo the clown had done a runner. Doubtless you are unfamiliar with his work, yet it is a name that will in all probability haunt me longer than his young victims. It was my first telly. Imagine my joy at landing the role of the disgraced clown’s agent. Unfortunately, the actual gentleman in question got it into his head that any association with his erstwhile client would be bad for Party People Enterprises, and the threat of legal action was enough to ensure that my beautifully understated performance ended up on the cutting-room floor. Since that time I have tried to ensure that no editor should be able to expunge me from the proceedings quite so effortlessly. Several years later, when my next big break came along, I contrived to stick as closely to Sooty as possible; consequently there was, at least, a small part of my anatomy in every shot. Which is why, at this very moment, I have assumed a position equidistant from Michael and his mother, leaning casually against a tree, pretending to be engrossed in Be Your Own Psychotherapist in One Weekend, à la Hamlet.
Nikki plays the off-screen interviewer; that annoy-ingly flat voice, which lulls its victims into a false sense of security and prompts them to unburden themselves in squirmingly graphic detail. “How did you feel about that, Valerie, when you realized Michael was going to spend the rest of his…the foreseeable future in a wheelchair?”
The Opposite Bastard Page 7
