by Simon Pegg
One of the first long-playing records I ever owned was a Wombles album, called Keep On Wombling. The Wombles was a hugely popular, animated children’s TV series, about a family of diminutive creatures living on Wimbledon Common in south-west London, ‘making good use of the things that [they] find, things that the everyday folks leave behind’. It was essentially a show about recycling, thirty years before it became fashionable. It became so popular that Merton council, which presides over the borough of Wimbledon, had to deal with a sharp increase in littering, after children desperate to catch a glimpse of these little eco-warriors began wilfully discarding rubbish across the common.
The theme tune became a hit and composer Mike Batt went on to produce further singles and albums under the guise of the Wombles, one of which marked my first foray into studious vinyl appreciation. Side one of Keep On Wombling was a sort of concept album, which gave way to more generic fare on side two, a bit like Sgt. Pepper. Everything on side one fell under the banner of ‘Orinoco’s Dream (Fantasies of a sleeping Womble)’ and encompassed the most popular Womble’s dreams of being an astronaut, a cowboy, a jungle explorer, etc.
I spent many hours in my nan’s front parlour (one of those silent front rooms, seldom entered) listening to this album and imagining I was Orinoco living out these diverse fantasies. Predictably, my favourite track was ‘Womble of the Universe’, in which Orinoco travels into space in a clockwork rocket ship with only Madame Cholet’s cucumber sandwiches for sustenance. Space travel appealed to my imagination even before Star Wars arrived, and the possibility and potential contained in the dark void that surrounded us always filled me with enormous excitement.
My vinyl collection eventually grew to include two films, which I would listen to repeatedly, happy in my headphone cocoon. The first was Mel Brooks’s Young Frankenstein, whose purchase coincided with my mum marrying Richard Pegg.
When Mum married Richard, not only did he take on a ready-made family in Mum and me but I took on new grandparents, John and Pam, who I loved very much, and also a new uncle called Greg. Greg was a something of an AV enthusiast, and around Christmas time, the Peggs would gather to view 16mm movie prints, chosen and projected by Uncle Greg. It was always incredibly exciting, not just because it felt like we had a cinema in our house but because we never knew what we were going to watch.
At the time, the notion of home cinema was an absolute luxury; prints were expensive and complicated to screen, and the appeal was rather specialist. This made it all the more thrilling as our annual movie nights approached and speculation would mount as to what film it would be, information Uncle Greg proudly held back until the last moment.
When home video erupted in the early eighties, Uncle Greg’s film nights evaporated somewhat. It’s odd that I can go into a Blockbuster or increasingly visit a LEGAL download facility on the Internet and stare blankly at the endless choice, only to give up in the face of so many options. I never felt disappointment when Uncle Greg announced the title of that year’s film, only intrigued and excited. Invariably, I hadn’t heard of the film anyway. Lovingly projected on to the kind of screen used to look at holiday snaps, were Richard Lester’s Royal Flash (1975), Sky Riders, a James Coburn, Robert Culp hang-gliding actioneer from 1976, and Mel Brooks’s Young Frankenstein (1974). I have dim memories of enjoying the first two, but it was Mel Brooks’s loving parody of the old Universal horror films that really captured my imagination. It made me laugh, totally freaked me out and left me desperate to see it again. Fortunately for me, the film was available as an album, which my stepfather purchased from a record shop on St Aldate Street called Hickies. What is it with that street?
I listened to it again and again. Poring over every word and musical cue, replaying the film in my head. Closing my eyes I was able to clearly visualise the events of the film – Gene Wilder and Peter Boyle stomping out their hilarious version of ‘Putting on the Ritz’, or sexy Teri Garr playing the violin to lure the monster back to the castle. I must have listened to it hundreds of times.
It’s interesting that, years later, my first foray into film-making would not only be a horror/comedy but would similarly achieve its aims by employing a beloved horror staple and placing it within a comedic context. I’ll talk more about Shaun of the Dead later, but it occurs to me there is a correlation between my love of Brooks’s movie and the film that would mark the beginning of my big-screen career. I certainly poured real-life experiences into my contribution to the film, not least Shaun’s relationship with his stepfather. My own relationship with Richard Pegg was complex and problematic, as are the majority of step relationships. It basically boiled down to a power struggle for my mother’s affection that caused a certain amount of tension between us. We’re friends now but at the time we most certainly weren’t.
I was already six when I met him and he, at twenty-four, had no prior parenting experience. It was a learning curve for both of us and it wasn’t a particularly smooth arc. As much as I saw him as an interloper and he saw me as the physical manifestation of another relationship, when we did bond, we did so enthusiastically over films and music. We were the opposite of best friends, in that we were generally at odds, but occasionally we did enjoy bouts of welcome unity.
In the summer of 1980, he made a promise to take me to the fair that annually camped out on Gloucester city’s parkland. On the day of the proposed excursion, I visited him in Debenhams, where he worked at the time (Richard was another frustrated creative, venting his urges with the GODS), and he offered me the choice of either going to the fair or going to see a new film called Raiders of the Lost Ark. I’d seen the trailers on the tele vision, and duly noted its credentials as being ‘from the producers of Jaws and Star Wars’, and decided I’d forgo the dodgems and the waltzers in favour of another trip to the ABC. With hindsight, I did it as much for Richard’s sake as for my own ends. I did it because I sensed it was what he really wanted to do, and I knew if I agreed, it would not only soothe the tension between us but win me some approval. I was ten years old at the time.
Looking back, the decision I made on the third floor of the Gloucester branch of Debenhams (the back entrance of which was on St Aldate Street, opposite where our music shop used to be) was absolutely key. I didn’t realise it at the time but I was quite possibly at a metaphorical fork in the road. One path led away to easy superficial fun – all bright lights, loud noise and sugar – the other led to the movies. Now, I know Raiders of the Lost Ark isn’t Fellini but, crucially for me, it represented choosing substance over stimulation, mental interaction over a more fleeting sensory gratification.
My reason for doing this wasn’t a noble embracing of the humanities over the more base pleasures of the senses, it was an attempt to ingratiate myself with my stepdad; but, like Star Wars before it, Raiders served to further inspire my love of cinema and my interest in the film-making process. I have no doubt I would have seen it eventually, but something about making that specific choice resonates with me even now. Twenty-eight years later the man who made that film asked me to be in one of his films and one of the first people I shared that information with was Richard Pegg.
Have We Got a Video?
I
perfected my Rick impression very quickly, widening my eyes with glee and training my top lip to pull back across my teeth in a simpering grin, sending every ‘r’ to the front of my mouth to be flattened into thin-lipped pomposity. When The Young Ones burst on to our screens in 1982, it was so wildly different from anything that had been on before, its effect on the country’s young was seismic. The characters were so instantly brilliant, and classrooms across the land were suddenly populated by Ricks, Vyvyans, Neils and Mikes (although mainly the first three), all competing for the honour of best impersonation. Vyvyan required you to screw your lips into a perpetual pucker, set your head abob with a subtly aggressive bounce and shout every word you said from the raspiest part of your throat, whereas Neil, often intoned by the less extrovert, required a slow, n
asal drawl and use of words such as ‘wow’ and ‘heavy’. Mike seemed to be the least popular character, probably because he was an interloper from a different world: an adult scamming a student grant he was not entitled to. He was clearly the patriarch of the unit, and every self-respecting Young Ones fan knew dads weren’t cool.
A new wave of alternative comedy had already started with the arrival of Not the Nine O’Clock News, but, ‘Gob On You’ and ‘I Like Trucking’ notwithstanding, the show had always felt more like the preserve of grown-ups. The comedy was wicked, smart and often driven by a sly cynicism that somewhat sailed over the heads of the under-fifteens. The show’s contribution to the changing comedy landscape is unassailable, but its effect was far subtler than that of The Young Ones, which yelled and spat its way into all of our minds. I, like most, found The Young Ones utterly mesmerising, not just because it was so bold and daring and the characters so clearly defined they could be identified simply by their silhouettes, but because it seemed to speak directly to me. I wasn’t watching a simulation of some adult life I had no mental or spiritual connection with, I was watching something that was meant for me, and that, crucially, was specifically designed to alienate the older generation.
Every break time, and even during lessons much to the fury of teachers to whom the show was complete anathema, our school would echo with lines such as ‘Oh, have we got a video?’ and ‘Neil, Neil, orange peel, if only I could see you again.’ On lunchtime visits to John Guy’s house – he whose dining room became our break-dance rehearsal space – we would watch the one episode he had taped from the TV over and over again, to the point where I remember asking myself if I would ever tire of it, genuinely believing I would not. In truth I never did. I could watch it now and enjoy it just as much. The Young Ones taught me that comedy did not belong to other people, it wasn’t governed by grown-ups in rooms I was allowed to enter only if I behaved. It also taught me that the silly, childish, weird things I found funny weren’t a sign of peculiarity, alienation or a cause for alarm but that loads of other people found them funny too!
Over on Channel 4, a slightly more grown-up exercise in redefining the comedy landscape was taking place with Peter Richardson’s The Comic Strip Presents . . . Using many of the same faces that appeared in The Young Ones, producer Jeremy Issacs had, with an extraordinary amount of balls and foresight, commissioned this troupe of untested actors and comics to create a series of one-hour films that varied from genre pastiches to original and surreal flights of fancy. It amazes me that so much effort and expense was ploughed into what was essentially a hunch; a hope that this fledgling ensemble could come up with the goods. Despite being a highly inventive and hugely talented group, they were an unknown quantity in televisual terms. Their freshness and sheer force must have felt like something of a gold rush for Channel 4, a network initially committed to producing challenging and alternative television. Indeed, the Comic Strip’s Famous Five parody, Five Go Mad in Dorset, formed part of the line-up for the channel’s opening-night entertainment and this spirit certainly powered things along for some time.
One night, planted in front of the TV with my snacks and drinks, I witnessed a group of people having a lot of fun with a budget. A Fistful of Travellers’ Cheques was, as you might expect, a pastiche of the Sergio Leone spaghetti westerns, following the misadventures of two cowboy wannabes who find themselves living the dream in Almeria, Spain, with a number of other travelling misfits. Rik Mayall and Peter Richardson play Carlos and Miguel, the two role-playing students who drop their drawling affected accents only once, during the build-up to an apparent duel. While arguing about who should start the row that provokes their pretend gunfight, Mayall asks in timorous, plummy tones, ‘Sorry, have we started yet?’ To which Richardson replies in a thick, West Country burr, ‘Course we have, you great tosser.’ I laughed so much I wept. Fortunately I had decided to tape as much of The Tube as I could, determined to get some souvenir of my night alone with the TV. As soon as the show had finished, I wound it back and watched it again, making much use of the review-search option to continually replay the specific exchange between Richardson and Mayall.
Another moment that I replayed obsessively was Adrian Edmondson’s first line as Billy the homicidal matador. As Nigel Planer’s stoned rocker tries to steal a beefburger from his plate, Edmondson lunges at him with a fork and grunts, ‘Fuck off!’ It was the first time I had ever heard the word ‘fuck’ said on television and it was a genuine shock. I felt a sudden jolt somewhere in my abdomen, which took me by surprise, almost as much as hearing the word itself. This wasn’t right. People weren’t allowed to say things like that on TV. They didn’t even say it on The Young Ones. Suddenly, comedy had become even more exciting and dangerous and I desperately wanted to see more.
I continued religiously taping the shows whenever they were aired and would recreate them endlessly at the back of lessons with my old friend Lee Beard, whose friendship I had rediscovered. Knowing the scripts and being able to recite moments from the shows became a badge of honour for us and an annoyance to people not in on the joke, just as I’m sure Python fans had delighted in doing the same some fifteen years before. Indeed, my love of modern comedy led me to rediscover Monty Python’s Flying Circus, which according to my dad I enjoyed immensely as a youngster, although I don’t remember it first time round. When the BBC repeated the series in the eighties, I realised that alternative comedy did not begin with the Comic Strip but rather regenerated through the ages like Doctor Who, the mantle being passed on to the next generation of subversives (often directly): Spike Milligan (The Goons) appeared in Monty Python’s Life of Brian, Terry Jones (Monty Python) appeared in The Young Ones, Ben Elton (The Young Ones) introduced Vic Reeves at The Secret Policeman’s Ball, Steve Coogan (The Day Today) was a guest on The Smell of Reeves and Mortimer, Chris Morris (The Day Today) directed the pilot of Big Train, etc. The connections are many and varied, and although the style of comedy evolves and mutates, the desire to undermine the norms of comedy remains constant and a new incarnation will emerge as the older version is assimilated into the mainstream and disempowered.
In 1999, just after completing the first series of Spaced, I landed the role of Mr Nice alongside Rik Mayall and Adrian Edmondson in Guest House Paradiso, a cinematic outing for their Bottom franchise. Shot at Ealing Studios, where four years later I would shoot Shaun of the Dead with fellow cast members Kate Ashfield and Bill Nighy, the film was a typically grotesque comic take on the bad hotel set-up, with Richie and Eddie as the feckless proprietors. The whole thing culminates in an incident with radioactive fish, which leads to many of the characters, including myself, projecting fountains of green vomit across the walls and floor. I leapt at the chance to work with my childhood comedy heroes. It meant a lot to me to be able to chat about The Young Ones with Rik between takes (director Ade Edmondson was less available although no less friendly).
It is an extraordinary thing to meet your heroes and find them to be everything you hoped they would be. Despite the high pedestal I had placed them on as a child, Rik and Ade appeared to be very normal with no superpowers or bad attitudes. Rik even seemed a little insecure, relishing the crew’s laughter at the end of a take and worrying if it was not forthcoming. Here was a man whose comic talents had inspired me enormously as a youngster, who had created one of the most enduring characters in alternative comedy, who had even appeared briefly in An American Werewolf in London, and I was sat next to him chatting about silly things, as if we were friends. Suddenly, the world I had scrutinised for so long was all around me, as if I had leaned forward and climbed into the television like Alice through the looking-glass. I had no idea just how deep the rabbit hole would go.
8
Hendon spread out beneath them like a big map of Hendon. The twinkling lights of north London seemed deceptively peaceful from the solitude of the jet and yet Simon Pegg knew what lay ahead and shuddered internally, before becoming distracted by Chiquito’s Bar and Gril
l, Staples Corner, and experiencing a powerful yearning for a single fried chicken chimi with cheese.
‘What are you looking at?’ enquired Murielle.
‘Hendon,’ Pegg said, banishing all thoughts of Tex Mex cuisine from his brain. ‘You will never find a more wretched hive of villainy. We must be cautious.’
‘You ’ave a wonderful way wiz words,’ whispered Murielle, from beneath the silk sheets.
‘Thanks,’ said Pegg, sideways glancing at the French beauty.
They had spent the flight from Marrakesh analysing the schematics of Lord Black’s town house, which they had downloaded from the Foxtons website. Although they were barely able to keep their hands off each other, they knew there was work to be done, so they had compromised by working in the nude. Of all Pegg’s plans and schemes over the years as a crime-fighting adventurer, this was probably the least thought through.
‘You should try to get somesing published,’ said Murielle, stretching with feline grace.
‘Funny you should say that,’ scoffed Pegg. ‘I’m supposed to be writing a book right now but instead I’m jetting round the globe, having primo bunk-ups and trying to prevent the destruction of all life on Earth.’
‘Oo’s your publisher?’ enquired the French beauty.
‘Ben Dunn at Century, a subsidiary of Random House Publishing,’ Pegg replied bitterly, busying himself with his portable info-hub so as to distract himself from the fact that he hadn’t finished his book.
‘Ee sounds like a bastard,’ said Murielle, her naked body clearly defined by the gossamer film that sheathed her perfect shape, defining every curve, every protrusion.
‘Someone’s smuggling peanuts!’ said Pegg.
‘Pardon?’ Murielle replied, drawing the sheet around her midriff in a soft swathe.
