The Opposite Bastard

by Simon Packham

  I don’t know who Piers is talking about, but from the way the colour has drained from his cheeks, I’d say De Niro has a pretty good idea. “Oh no, no, absolutely not. I’m sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I would rather spend Christmas with Andrew Lloyd Webber.”

  Nikki Hardbody drags him to one side and whispers something I can’t quite make out.

  The Actor

  There’s a desperation in Nikki’s voice that isn’t in the least bit attractive. “Timothy, I’m begging you here. Do it for me, why don’t you?”

  She can point her bazookas at me until the cows come home, I’m not budging. “Sorry, Nikki, no can do.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “It’s a matter of principle, you wouldn’t understand.” (It was a line I had in a play once; I knew it would come in handy some day.)

  “That’s very laudable…Tim… but I thought you wanted to get into voice-overs. Is it really worth throwing away the chance of a lifetime for a silly little principle?”

  “You wouldn’t…you couldn’t?”

  Her teeth gleam like a crocodile’s. “Couldn’t I? I don’t seem to recall you signing any contract.”

  “But you promised.”

  “Listen, mate,” she hisses, “if you don’t get up on that fucking stage, I’m going to call Martin Jarvis’s voice-over agent right now. That’d be a shame, don’t you think? Because if you get on there and save the day, it could be the best career move you ever made. I’m talking book deals, I’m talking personal appearances, I’m talking pantomime – Comic Relief even. Do you see where I’m coming from?”

  ♦

  Next time you go to the theatre, spare a thought for the poor buggers who come on at the beginning of the curtain call and have to stand around for hours, with game-show-hostess smiles, dissembling enthusiasm like plucky prostitutes.

  The audience screams its approval: “Bravo, bravo!” I stare back in silent disgust, just as the director instructed. Suddenly, the festive season chez Lloyd Webber sounds rather an attractive prospect.

  If only those flash guns were the real McCoy. Anything would be better than soaking up this humiliating applause. With a speed which wouldn’t disgrace those blokes with the huge arm muscles that get to start first in the London Marathon, I push Hamlet out of the limelight and I don’t stop running until we’re safely back in the dressing room.

  Neither of us speaks. We’re both transfixed by the distant whirlwind which slowly gathers pace until it bursts through the door.

  The Quadriplegic

  Philip is first, salivating like Tom and Maggie, the drool dripping down his carefully manicured goatee. “Respect, Mike, that was so fucking beautiful I nearly cried.”

  Nikki and her camera are next. How like a fawning publican she looks. “Michael, that was fab, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  She’s followed by virtually the entire cast, all in a state of mild hysteria. Someone pops open a bottle of champagne, and Piers slips into his crap Dame Edna: “G’day, darlings.”

  “Back in a sec,” says Nikki, spotting someone more important on the other side of the room. “Don’t forget the producer of Stars in Their Eyes wants to meet you.”

  De Niro meanwhile has drifted into a corner. “Cheers, Tim,” shouts Philip, “you got us out of a hole.” But the man who saved the day doesn’t even look up.

  Oh, crap. That purple thing pushing its way through the crowd towards me is my mum. “That was lovely, dear. And the black jumper looked really smashing. Now I know what to get you for Christmas!”

  “Thanks, Mum. Glad you could make it.”

  “And wasn’t it wonderful of Timothy, stepping into the breach like that?”

  Without my microphone, making conversation is bloody impossible. “Where’s Anna?”

  “I don’t know, dear,” says Mum, “she’s probably making herself look beautiful for the party – not that she needs to, of course.”

  “We’re supposed to be going to the party together.”

  Mum bends down and kisses me on the cheek. Unlike most self-respecting adolescents I can’t pull away. “Sorry, dear, I just need to have a quick chat with that nice young man from Newsround. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No, Mum, you go for it.”

  Just as I’m wondering who’s going to push me to the party, a fruity voice stops me in my tracks: “Michael, I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you. You were super tonight, by the way.” A plump, middle-aged woman, expensively dressed, programme in one hand, lapdog in the other, is standing in front of me, gushing. Tikki Montague—Montague Casting. “Look, I know you’ve got a party to go to, so I won’t keep you, darling, but I’ve given the gorgeous Anna my card. Next time you’re in town, perhaps you’d like to pop in for a chat. I’m casting a First World War feature in January and I’m sure the director will want to meet you. Ciao.”

  When she turns to leave, something very strange happens. De Niro jumps to his feet and pursues her to the door, wringing his hands and smiling like a cretin.

  “Tikki…Tikki…TIKKI!”

  ∨ The Opposite Bastard ∧

  15

  Toys of Desperation

  The Quadriplegic

  Philip’s nose stud glistens in the moonlight. The JCR by the lake is already throbbing with the sound of music as he struggles to push my spaz-chariot along the soggy wood-chip path. Trust Nikki Hardbody to book the only venue in college that the star of the show can’t get to.

  “Fuck this for a game of soldiers,” says Philip, collapsing onto one of the benches donated by friends of the college, “I need a rest.”

  “Where’s Anna?”

  “Can’t hear you, mate.”

  “Where’s Anna?”

  He takes out his tobacco pouch and begins rolling a joint. “She went off with a guy from the Daily Mirror. But you needn’t worry,” he says, aiming a kick at a passing duck, “your little girlfriend’s saving herself for Mr Right.”

  Yes, go on, laugh, you public-school tosser. You wouldn’t know what love was if it jumped up and bit you on the bollocks. “Can we go inside now, please?”

  “Psycho was right,” says Philip, blowing out a stream of sickly-sweet smoke, “this is really good shit. Here, try some.”

  “No! Look, it’s cold out here, let’s go inside.”

  He squats in front of me, like a Masai warrior. “Chill, bro, it’s time you and me had a little chat.”

  And there was I thinking he’d offered to push me to the party out of the goodness of his heart: “What about?”

  “The woman from the RSC loved it tonight. She thinks I’m really talented.”

  I nod ironically, like one of those dogs that post-modernists have in the back of their Ford Escorts.

  “Wasn’t it great, though? Like the best orgasm you ever had, but a hundred times better.”

  I nod again. I’m well good at nodding; especially the ironic kind.

  “Michael, I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.” He jumps up and saws the air with his joint. “If you and me are going to top Hamlet, we need to come up with something really amazing. I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I’ve finally found the part you were born to play. Go on, have a guess.”

  “Romeo?”

  “Yeah, nice one. Now have a proper guess.”

  If Piers hadn’t already been such a hit in The Elephant Man we wouldn’t be having this conversation. “Go on, surprise me.”

  “Shylock, of course. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

  I shake my head in sheer fucking dismay; I’m good at that too.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know it sounds mental, but I’m sure I can make it work. Do you know the lines?”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  “It’s brilliant. Shylock in a wheelchair – a perfect metaphor for the archetypal outsider.”

  There are about a trillion reasons why this is the worst idea since God planted the Tree of Knowledge in the
Garden of Eden, but the first thing that springs to mind is, “How would I be able to take my pound of flesh?”

  “The same way we did the swordfights,” says Philip. “Come on, Mike, what do you say? I think you’d make a terrific Jew.”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  Philip lowers his head so that his ear is right in front of my mouth. “Sorry, mate, can’t hear ya.”

  “I said I’m not doing it.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and attempts a caring-profession smile. “Look, I know it sounds daunting, Mike, but you wouldn’t be on your own. You know how hard I work for my actors. With your dedication and my talent we can’t go wrong.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head without a trace of irony, “I’m sorry, I can’t do it.”

  A look of panic fills his eyes. “I knew this would happen. OUDS want you for The Duchess of Malfi. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “No, I just…”

  He stumbles back to the bench, tosses his joint to the ducks and waves his finger at me like Piers does when he’s acting. “You ungrateful bastard. I took a chance on you, and this is how you repay me. Do you think anyone else would have cast a fucking mentalist?”

  I’m the only one who does the crip jokes around here. It’s about time I told Philip Sidney a few home truths. “I’m not doing it because you’re a talentless dickhead. I’m not doing it because you couldn’t direct a fucking funeral. I’m not doing it because I won’t have you using me any more.”

  “Oh, I get it,” he says, “you’ve been talking to that so-called girlfriend of yours. Listen, matey, if anyone’s been using you, she has.”

  “You’re just jealous because she dumped you.”

  “Oh, Michael, Michael, Michael, don’t tell me that frigid little todger-dodger has got to you too?”

  “What do you mean?” I say, really wishing I could stick my fingers in my ears.

  “Typical edge-of-the-bed virgin, that’s what she is. Any bloody excuse to keep your wankshaft out of her fur-burger. With me it was…well, never mind, but with you,” he throws open his arms like that picture of Jesus Mum’s got in the kitchen, “it’s the best bloody excuse of all. You couldn’t shag her if you wanted to.”

  I hear the distant cackle of Rosencrantz and Guilden-stern. “It’s not true. We love each other.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he says, grabbing the handles of my spaz-chariot. “But just you remember, Michael, actors are ten a penny. Why don’t you ask the pathetic bastard who’s been pushing you around all night?”

  The Actor

  After my embarrassing performance in the dressing room, the last thing I need is a first-night party; especially for such a palpable hit. Many’s the God-awful show-business soiree I’ve spent up the arse (metaphorically, you understand) of some leading supporting actor who’s known in the business as a marvellous raconteur – or to be more accurate, completely boring bastard. I was all for limping back to my rooms, but Nikki Hardbody somehow persuaded me that Wheelchair of Fire would be incomplete without a couple of shots of yours truly putting away a few peanuts and mingling expertly. Who am I to argue? And anyway, I promised Valerie Owen we’d meet up after she’d done her interview with Radio Oxford.

  This is my idea of hell: a hall full of half-cut teenagers, more dry ice than a provincial pantomime, and a huge white screen palpitating with a migraine-inducing light show. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve managed to commandeer a perfectly drinkable bottle of Rioja, it’s quite possible I would have spent this evening mugging up on the scenic route to Beachy Head; although perhaps I’ve become so accustomed to wallowing in other people’s success that now I’m immune to it. So instead of venting ire on the iniquities of my life in art, I content myself with getting really angry about this ghastly, repetitive ‘music’. I don’t know what’s worse; the incessant bass line, or the shameless plagiarism of familiar riffs from eighties rock classics. Popular music should be about self-pity and frustration, not jigging mindlessly to an electronic fart.

  “Awright, bro, how ya doing?” A young man in an old-fashioned tracksuit holds his hand in the air like a traffic cop, inviting me to slap it. I know that politicians have got this obsession about getting disadvantaged kids into Oxbridge, but disadvantaged usually means coming from a one-horse family or only going skiing twice a year, and this lad looks like a bona-fide oik. He’s got more rings than Joan Collins (how in God’s name can he possibly articulate with that thing through his tongue?) and ‘psyco’ tattooed across his knuckles. I have a feeling I would be ill-advised to point out the spelling mistake. “Great show, man.”

  No doubt he’s another well-wisher wanting to tell me how great Michael was. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “I’m Psycho, Phil’s big brother.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, vaguely remembering that the chap who empties the wheelie bins is called Phil or Bill or something similar. “Glad you enjoyed it, er, Psycho.”

  “You was brilliant, man,” he says, flexing his knuckles ominously. “I could feel your pain, innit? It was like you was banged up for something you never done.”

  “Well, that’s awfully kind of you, Psycho. My agent, Bunny Michelmore at Bunny Michelmore Management, will be very pleased to hear it.”

  He stares at me for a moment, as if I’d just asked him to explain the theory of relativity. “You sorted, mate?”

  “Do you know, I think I have pulled myself together a bit. I don’t mind admitting I was pretty desolate back there, but your kind remarks have cheered me up no end.”

  Psycho stares at me again, and then steps backwards into the smoky shadows. “Catch yer later.”

  It’s a good thing that my state of mind has improved a little; otherwise what happens next could have been the final straw. Even Piers’s floppy-haired chum, who’s been DJ-ing or whatever they call it now, turns it down a couple of notches when they appear in the doorway. Someone strikes up a chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ and although, I’m pleased to note, it dies out almost immediately, the applause which accompanies it lasts long enough for Philip to push Michael the entire length of the JCR. He parks him next to the Pringles (well, what did you expect, quail’s eggs?) and hushes the crowd with an imperious hand gesture:

  “A lot of important people have said some very flattering things about me. That’s always nice, of course. But I just want to say, it’s not all about Philip Sidney, is it? I couldn’t have done it without you guys. And there’s one person in particular who’s been absolutely magnificent throughout this whole, crazy journey.” Everyone cheers. I take a swig of Rioja and brace myself for the inevitable eulogy of the Wheelchair Prince. “So here’s to Dave and his fantastic stage-management team. Cheers, Dave, we owe you one.”

  Dave sheepishly raises his can of lager, and Philip makes a swift getaway to a smattering of bemused applause. Stranded by the nibbles, Michael looks like the proverbial spare prick at a wedding, until a steady trickle of admirers make their way over to congratulate him: Piers drags himself away from his DJ chum for five seconds, the girl who played Rosencrantz (or was it Guildenstern?) kisses Michael on the forehead, and Polonius has a game stab at making small talk. But gradually they tire of him and go off in search of more earthly pursuits.

  Looking across at the abandoned figure in the wheelchair, I can’t help reflecting that, even though he’s just given the sort of performance I could only dream about, from where I’m sitting his life looks almost as horrendous as my own.

  The Quadriplegic

  I could kill for a salt-and-vinegar Pringle. What kind of a sicko parks a quadriplegic next to the snacks? I can’t even make a quick getaway. I’ve got to sit here like a lemon until Anna turns up.

  Even though Piers’s mate Gavin is the worst DJ in Oxford, some of them have started dancing; throwing themselves about and all the usual random stuff. The girl who played Guildenstern (or was it Rosencrantz?) is passing around a two-litre bottle of Evian, Poloni
us is waving a twenty-pound note at the bloke in the tracksuit, and Philip has disappeared into the Gents with one of the makeup ladies. That lot are in the middle of a best-years-of-your-life moment, and I can’t even get some cheap wine in a plastic cup. Only De Niro, crouched in the corner like a paedophile at a convention of tabloid journalists, looks as pissed off as I feel.

  “Guess who?”

  I know instantly, from the chocolatey smell, that the hands belong to Anna. “Where have you been?”

  “Sorry, babe, the Daily Mirror guy insisted on buying me a drink. Wanted to know if I was up for a bit of tasteful nudity.”

  “Do you mind if we go now?”

  “Can’t hear you, babe.”

  “I said, can we go now, please?”

  I don’t know why Anna’s still got her school uniform on. She looks like a refugee from one of those pervy discos. “Aren’t you going to say goodbye to your mother? I think she and Nikki might have something planned.”

  “What are we waiting for then? Let’s get out of here.”

  “Too late, I’m afraid,” says Anna, turning my wheelchair to face the door. “Look.”

  Mum bounds towards me with a smile the size of a B-list chat-show guest. “Hello, dear, enjoying your party?”

  “Yes, thanks, Mum.”

  Nikki Hardbody is at her side; turning herself inside out to get a good shot of Mum’s ankles. “Hi, you two. How’s British television’s favourite couple-to-be?”

  “We were just leaving actually,” says Anna. “Mike’s really tired, aren’t you, babe?”

  “Course he is,” says Nikki. “There’s just one little thing I want to get in the can before we wrap.”

  Mum fiddles anxiously with her wedding ring. “If Michael’s not up to it, maybe we should call it a day.”