The Opposite Bastard

by Simon Packham

  The Quadriplegic

  “That’s better,” says Anna, applying yet more hair gel and flicking my fringe up into a quiff. “You want to look your best for opening night, don’t you, babe?”

  “I just want to get it over with.”

  “Not nervous, are you?”

  “Not really, but it’s going to be great not having that camera shoved up my dung trumpet every time I want to fart.”

  A flicker of concern flashes across my girlfriend’s face. “You don’t need your bag changed, do you, babe?”

  “No! I’m fine. Timothy did it before you arrived.”

  Anna scowls at De Niro’s bedroom door. “That’s good. We’re all set then.”

  “Looks like it.”

  She kisses her fingertips and places them on my mouth. Her fingers smell of chocolate. “You happy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Me too,” she smiles.

  Don’t get me wrong; it’s totally the best thing that’s ever happened to me. What sort of an ungrateful bastard do you take me for? Anna’s a brilliant girl: she’s kind, she’s funny, she’s a dab hand with a surgical hoist. I just don’t understand why she wants to spend so much time with me. And why does she have to tell me how she feels every five minutes? It’s not like I can do anything about it.

  “God, Mike, I’m shitting bricks. Mind you, I’ve been doing that for the last ten years. Did you know Philip had a guy from the RSC coming?”

  “So you two are talking again then?”

  “He said it was for the good of the show.”

  “That was big of him.”

  “And I’ve got a confession to make: I don’t find Mozart even slightly relaxing. In fact, all that plinky-plonking makes me so tense I want to scream. I’m not even that delirious about French films; what’s wrong with EastEnders?”

  “Oh, yes,” says Anna, reaching into her rucksack and pulling out a plastic pig with a ribbon round its neck. “I thought I’d give you this now. I’ve only got cards for the others. Isn’t he gorgeous?”

  “Yes, he’s…great, thanks a lot. I never had my own pig before.”

  Anna wipes a space on the mantelpiece with a pink tissue. “I’ll put him here, shall I, next to your what-do-you-call-it?” She examines the Fecundimatic, holding it up to the light like a rare jewel. “What is this thing anyway?”

  Anna made me promise we’d always be completely truthful with each other, but there is such a thing as being too honest. “Nikki thought it might help with my headaches.”

  “You haven’t got a headache, have you, babe? Do you want me to rub your neck?”

  “No…thanks, I’m fine.”

  “You’d better wear that scarf I bought you.”

  “OK then.” At first, it was quite cool when she bought me stuff; now I’m starting to feel like Wheelchair Barbie. I know she only does it because she wants me to look nice, but I wish she didn’t want to change my outfit every five seconds.

  “When are you seeing your mother?” she says, wrapping my new Gloucester College scarf tight around my neck.

  “Not until after the show, thank God. She won’t like it anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because her son dies at the end, and Barry Manilow didn’t write the music.”

  “Why does she bother turning up then?” says Anna, doing that flouncy thing with her shoulders.

  “Nikki says she’s got a surprise for her at the after-show party.”

  “Mummy’s not coming, of course. Daddy says she’s hardly been out of her room since our visit.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Don’t worry about her, it’s not important.” She takes my head in her hands and stares into my eyes. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you, Michael.”

  It’s never a good sign when someone looks me in the eye. It’s usually the build-up to one of those ‘I’m afraid you’re never going to walk again’ or ‘Me and your mother just don’t love each other any more’ moments. “You’d better say it then.”

  She kisses me softly on the lips. “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For making me feel good about myself. You’ve been amazing.”

  “Whatever.”

  De Niro bursts out of his bedroom wearing a demented smile and a truly terrible tie with what looks like a plague of rats on it. “Hello, you two, all set for your big night?”

  He’s been a total pain in the arse lately with his constant bloody cheerfulness. I think I preferred it when he was a miserable old sod. Don’t tell me he’s found someone desperate enough to grease his weasel.

  “Actually, I’m really nervous,” says Anna. “God knows how I’m going to get through the madness scene.”

  A strange smile breaks out on De Niro’s face. “You needn’t worry about that, dear heart. That is…I must have seen at least a dozen Ophelias in my time, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen mental illness better conveyed.”

  “It runs in the family,” says Anna bleakly.

  I’m so eager to get out of here that my wheelchair is already halfway to the door. “Come on, Anna, we need to be off. Philip wants to do an extended warm-up.”

  On our way out, De Niro gives us a camp, one-handed finger wave. “I’ll see you two on the green then. And don’t forget, have a lovely show.”

  The Actor

  “I know I’m going to,” I whisper.

  Oh, by the way, do you like my lucky first-night tie? SOWINS gave it to me when I was understudying in The Mousetrap – hence the hamsters. Not that it proved in the least bit propitious. Despite a psychopathic murderer in our midst, the cast proved sickeningly durable. Even Dickie Burford managed to get some poor bugger to give him a lift during the traditional tube strike.

  Which brings me rather neatly to the subject of my top two phoney acting cliches; next time you’re watching the box, look out from them:

  THE END OF THE PHONE CALL: Instead of hanging up immediately – as one does – the actor stares dramatically at the receiver, as if eyeballing the person he’s just spoken to.

  THE SLOW SLIDE DOWN THE WALL: Used to denote a state of extreme anguish, and often followed by the theme tune. The actor ends up level with the skirting board in a crouched foetal position, head in hands, sobbing. This requires terrific balance and upper-leg strength. If you ever come across it in real life, chances are that Halley’s Comet will be illuminating the proceedings.

  So what of the passing of time? As the camera pans around my dismal little room, perhaps it could zoom in on a growing pile of dirty coffee cups, come to rest on a newly acquired moustache, or maybe simply focus on Miss November in my Page Three calendar and the box containing an enigmatic exclamation mark. Except, of course, I’m rather meticulous about domestic hygiene, I can’t stand facial hair, and it dawned upon me many moons ago that Page Three girls are like a red rag to a bull as far as the type of women I generally shag are concerned.

  Yet make no mistake, this is no ordinary ‘day in the life’. This is the day I have been waiting for since I first clapped eyes on the Wheelchair Prince. My physical circumstances may not have changed much in the last few weeks, but my emotional journey – as one of those chain-smoking lady directors with a penchant for theatre games and onstage buggery would describe it – has been enormous. No acute observer could have failed to notice the carefree spring in my step, the cheerful alacrity with which I have performed my thankless duties, and my almost avuncular observation of Hamlet and Ophelia’s burgeoning intimacy. Never, I believe, since Burbage himself was giving his legendary Dane, has a performance of Hamlet been so eagerly awaited. In fact, so bright has been my demeanour, that I do believe when Wheelchair of Fire is broadcast, I shall be receiving some pretty saucy letters from ladies of a ‘certain age’.

  Don’t get the impression, however, that I have been completely idle. My improved self-image has marked a significant upsurge in my masturbatory activities, and as well as my regular evening visits to the Fatt
ed Calf I’ve also managed to fit in some lunchtime drinking. Of course I’ve continued to ensure that I feature in every single shot of Wheelchair of Fire. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it was to persuade Nikki that a romantic meal a deux should feature yours truly as the solicitous waiter. On top of all that there’s been a certain amount of fine tuning involved. Although my master plan has a beautiful simplicity to it, the timing is crucial, and I’ve spent many a long evening perfecting the logistics.

  But now, as darkness falls and the burnt-toast smells begin to pervade the atmosphere, all that remains is to park myself in front of Countdown and do just that. When zero hour arrives, I shall skip to the theatre like a frisky unicorn; and having first popped my head round to bid Michael ‘break a leg’, I shall take up my seat in the front row.

  The Virgin

  As soon as we step into the theatre (or Methodist Hall to be more accurate) that slag, Hardbody, descends on us like Cilia Black. “Don’t you two look fab? So come on guys, tell me all about it?”

  “About what?” I say, managing to avoid her attempts to sucker me into a theatrical embrace.

  So instead, she waves her tits at my boyfriend. “Mike’s always got a cheeky grin on his face these days, haven’t you, mate?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “There’s no need to be bashful,” she says, patting him on the head. “You two have got a really good thing going. The British public are going to love you, I know they are.”

  That woman is so transparent she should have her own double-glazing company. “Would you mind not touching his hair, please? I spent a long time working on Michael’s quiff.”

  “I bet you did,” she says, turning it into a pathetic innuendo as usual. Michael’s just as keen to get shot of her as I am. But she throws herself in front of his wheelchair, batting her eyelids like a French whore. “Michael, before you go, I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “What for?”

  “For everything really: your patience, your…sense of humour, and above all for letting me into your life. It’s been a real eye opener.”

  All true, of course, but she’s only using him, just like the rest of them. Wait a minute; it looks like there’s more. Just how far is the Channel 4 bike prepared to go in her pursuit of fifth-rate television?

  “It’s an overused word, Michael, but in your case, I don’t think it even comes close: you’re a true hero, I really mean that. If we don’t get a BAFTA nomination for this, I’ll be bloody furious.”

  “Oh, Mike,” I say, kissing his neck so that bloody floozy’s in no doubt as to whose boyfriend he is, “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Don’t let me down,” she says, suddenly sounding a lot more sincere. “You won’t believe who’s going to be out there tonight. We’ve got Channel 4 News, the Guardian, Radio Oxford, that gorgeous guy from Newsround – not to mention your lovely mother, of course.”

  “Don’t remind me,” says Michael.

  “And that’s not all. The Richard and Judy psychologist wants to do a phone-in on sex and the disabled, and Blue Peter are working on a special ‘make’ of your wheelchair for Children in Need. Isn’t that cool?”

  What a sad person Nikki Hardbody is. Underneath that rock-hard exterior, I have a feeling there’s something much more messed-up inside. I’m just going to have to do a bit of digging. “What about you, Nikki? Have you got anyone special coming along – a boyfriend – husband, perhaps?”

  “I’m a strong woman,” she says, biting her bottom lip. “Some men find that quite threatening. But don’t worry, Anna; you’ll never have that problem.”

  I smile sympathetically. “So that’s a no then, is it, Nikki?”

  “I thought you two had a warm-up to get to,” she snarls.

  The Quadriplegic

  Philip Sidney has come as Count Dracula. He’s wearing an Oxfam dinner jacket with a vampire’s cloak and strategically placed Aids ribbon. He’s dyed his hair black and looks so pale I could swear he’s got make-up on.

  “Acting is as simple as falling off a log. It’s getting up on the log that’s the difficult part.” (Confused grins.) “You have all worked…fucking hard. Believe me, we’ve got a shit-hot show on our hands. OK, so we had a couple of problems in the dress, but they weren’t seminal. I don’t care if you forget your lines, miss cues even, but what I do need is for your hearts to be right. If you get things right in here,” he pats his chest, “then everything else will fall into place.”

  Piers’s hand shoots into the air. “Sorry, Phil, just a small thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “When are we going to rehearse the curtain call?”

  Philip bites on his knuckles. “We’re not doing one.”

  “Why not?” says Piers, tossing back his golden locks. “I think we deserve it, especially Mike and Anna.”

  “Because this is not the fucking West End,” says Philip. “Some of you might go in for all that bourgeois crap – isn’t that right, Anna? – but this isn’t about egos, Piers, it’s about respect.”

  “But you just said we’d all worked so hard. Can’t we even do a little walk-down?”

  “No,” says Philip. “Now this is what I want to happen: during the blackout, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern will put Hamlet back in his wheelchair. As the lights come up, you will form a circle and stare at the audience. I don’t want any bowing or cheesy grins. That will destroy everything we’ve been working for. Stage management will bring the lights up and down a couple of times, and as soon as you hear the first bar of ‘Jailhouse Rock’, move swiftly off.”

  “Well, I hope you know what you’re playing at,” says Piers, stripping down to his purple leotard. “Now I suppose you want me to take this warm-up?”

  Philip raises his hand like the Pope: “Don’t forget, people, theatre changes lives. Enjoy yourselves out there tonight, but above all, be brave. OK, I’ll see you all at the party.” (Muted applause.) “Right, thank you, Piers, they’re all yours.”

  The Actor

  As you may have observed, I am probably on the cusp of being a cynic. Despite this, there is always something exciting about an opening night, even for me. It doesn’t matter if it’s the first performance of See How They Run in the village hall or the new Pinter on Broadway, there’s a ludicrous optimism here that I’ve yet to encounter in any other walk of life – except perhaps the Church. Of course, by the second performance the knives are usually out and ‘That’s the best you’ve ever done it, love’ has suddenly turned into ‘Are you really going to do it like that?’ or ‘Would you mind not breathing over my laugh lines?’ But for the moment, let’s just enjoy the atmosphere. While Piers is taking the company through one of his interminable warm-ups, why don’t we pop backstage for a snoop?

  Blu-tacked to the pass door is a notice which reads:

  INSTEAD OF FIRST NIGHT CARDS I SHALL BE MAKING A DONATION TO AIDS CHARITIES. HAVE A GREAT SHOW. LOVE PHILIP XXXX’

  Despite the casting of a female Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the gentlemen far outnumber the ladies, and the girls’ dressing room is a converted broom cupboard that smells of disinfectant. Someone has placed a large bunch of white roses in the old enamel sink. I sneak a peek at the card: “Anna, you make me wish I was a real boy—love Michael.” The writing’s so awful you could almost imagine he’d scribbled it himself.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I smile too effusively, like a first-time adulterer. “Nikki. The pleasure is all mine.”

  Ms Hardbody doesn’t attempt to contradict me. “I thought you’d be with Michael. You always bloody are.”

  “I try to do my best for the young gentleman.”

  “Of course you do, Timothy, you’re all heart.”

  Now that I’m 99 per cent certain she’s never going to sleep with me, I feel at liberty to be more honest with her. “It’s working with you, Nikki. You bring out the philanthropist in me.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” says Nikki, reading Anna’s card. “Have you seen this?
Ueurghh, what a horrible thought.”

  “By the way, Nikki, when are we going to talk about my voice-over?”

  She pulls out her cigarettes. “What?”

  “We need to talk about it sooner or later. I imagine you’ll want my input before you finalize the script.”

  Nikki inhales nervously and blows smoke in my face. “Let’s just get Hamlet over with first, shall we? You have no idea what tonight means to me.”

  “Oh, I think I have,” I say, eyebrow raised for my imaginary audience, twenty years’ experience in all areas of the profession – apart from feature films and voice-overs—loading those five little words with the maximum amount of irony.

  “Is something the matter with your face, Timothy? Talking of which, have you seen what Valerie Owen is wearing?”

  “Oh, right, Valerie’s here. How is she?”

  “Batty as ever,” says Nikki delightedly. “It takes weeks in the editing suite to make someone look as bonkers as that, but she does all the work for you. I’ve got this fab idea to get her dancing with Michael at the party.”

  “Do you think that’s really…?”

  “Oh, come on, she deserves it. When she’s not boring my tits off with how wonderful Jesus is, she’s freezing my fucking fanny over with her ballroom-dancing shit.”

  Sometimes I think I’m too soft-hearted for show business. I should have been a pimp or a Nazi war criminal. “The other day you called her an inspiration for women everywhere.”

  “Yes,” says Nikki, drowning her cigarette butt in the sink, “an inspiration not to become a fucking God-botherer with the dress sense of an ant. Anyway, what are you doing hanging around the women’s dressing room? I thought you were gay.”

  Before I have time to protest my heterosexuality (and by the way, I’ve had no occasion to do so since my little misunderstanding with the choreographer of Beauty and the Beast ) something crashes into me from behind, and the sound of a mildish profanity is followed by the clatter of humanity on patterned lino. “For God’s sake,” I roar, deepening my voice for Nikki’s benefit, “you clumsy oaf, can’t you look where you’re…? Oh…right…sorry about that.”