Geek Tragedy (7 page)
EVENT:
PHOTOS—VANITY MYCROFT
LOCATION:
Transpodule Chamber (room 1030)
EVENT:
WRITING VIXENS FICTION PROFESSIONAL WRITERS’ PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless, Craig Jones, Darren Cardew
LOCATION:
The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)
As Mervyn entered the ballroom for his behind-the-scenes panel, he was plunged into darkness.
He could dimly see about 200 people on chairs, their faces shining with the reflected light from a projection screen. Booming from the speakers was a distorted conversation. On the screen, her features blown up to monstrous proportions, was Vanity. Her hair was lacquered into a golden mane that crested a good half-foot above her head; cheeks and eyelids plastered with a shade of shocking pink that had died out nowadays—thankfully—along with pirate shirts, suede pixie boots and T-shirts instructing the world in general to ‘RELAX’.
‘How could you do this to us. How could you do this
me
?’ she over-enunciated, moist lips quivering. The camera cut to the room she was in; a cross between a Russian palace (curtains and props courtesy of a BBC production of
War and Peace
) and an ultra-modern control centre (set borrowed from
Blake’s 7
). There was a large screen, crudely pasted on the wall with BBC special effects.
‘Forgive me sister. I have this weakness for wanting to be on the winning side.’
On the screen was the evil Medula. She was wearing a jet-black wig in a severe Cleopatra style. Her costume and make-up were all in blacks and purples. One might as well have CEEFAX subtitles flash up the word ‘villainess’.
‘But they’ll destroy the whole Vixen empire!’ wailed Vanity as, yet again, her face filled the wall of the ballroom.
Medula folded her arms in triumph. ‘The Day of the Vixen is over. The Day of the Styrax is just beginning!’
The credits rolled. There was spontaneous applause and whooping from the murky figures in the chairs.
‘Aren’t you dead yet?’ hissed a voice to Mervyn’s left. ‘I could have sworn I’d read your obituary in
The Independent
at least four times.’
‘Now you’re just being silly Nicholas. There’s no way I’d be seen dead in
The Independent
. You know and I know if I go, it’ll be nine inches in the
The Telegraph
or nothing.’
‘Nine inches? You’d have to mow down a bus queue for that, petal.’
Squinting in the semi-darkness, Mervyn could see a tanned, well-fed face under a flamboyantly dyed bouffant.
‘Dodgy old rubbish, isn’t it old love?’ The ex-Producer of
Vixens from the Void
pointed at the screen, grinned, and immaculately capped teeth glowed out of a well-trimmed beard. ‘But not bad for a budget of fifty quid and a toffee apple per show.’
‘Let me tell you, Nicholas, it’s got its own primitive charm. I’ve just seen it with very loud state-of-the-art effects and it’s not pretty.’
Mervyn liked Nicholas, and thoroughly enjoyed the time they’d worked together on
Vixens
. It was a rare thing for script editor and producer to get on so well, but Nicholas wasn’t one of those TV types who thought that being ostentatiously gay gave him the automatic right to throw his toys out of his pram and sulk at the production teams. Nicholas’s overt campery was the gloss on a deeply sensitive and shy man who listened very carefully to people who knew their jobs. Mervyn was deeply touched that Nicholas counted him among those few people.
‘How’s business in the touring game?’ he asked.
‘Oh positively booming, dear heart. This summer, I’ve shunted three arty exhibitions, two tribute bands and a rather spectacular pyrotechnic light show around the country. I’ve also had the dubious honour of being nursemaid to a particularly innovative—read dodgy—production of
Midsummer Night’s Dream
. I’m pleased to have the opportunity to shake the crumbs off my favourite old double entendre and say that the whole south coast of England has seen my experimental Bottom.’
Mervyn’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. He noticed Bernard Viner, the third member of their panel, sitting sullenly on a chair near the stage. He didn’t look very happy.
Oh dear
, thought Mervyn.
I really shouldn’t have sent that fan to show him his CGI stuff
.
*
The behind-the-scenes panel was to follow the clips. While the screens showed more highlights from
Vixens from the Void
, four large comfortable chairs were placed in a semi-circle on stage. After five minutes, the screens went blank. On cue, the crowd stopped milling and found a place to sit.
Minnie was there by the sound desk, arms folded. She caught his eye and blew him a kiss. Mervyn gave her a grin. Then he noticed his new fan, Stuart, sitting in the front row. Mervyn only glanced across to the audience for a second, but Stuart was waiting to catch his eye. The fan assumed the grin was for him, grinned back and gave a fluttery little wave like an adoring girlfriend, much to Mervyn’s embarrassment.
Simon Josh came on stage, clearly savouring his moment in the spotlight. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are so privileged to have with us three people who were, literally, the life blood and soul of
Vixens from the Void
. Let me invite on to the stage, Script editor Mervyn Stone, Producer Nicholas Everett, and last, but by no means least…’
Waiting in the darkness, Mervyn could have sworn that someone gave a bitter chuckle. It sounded like Bernard.
‘…Special effects wizard Bernard Viner!’
They mounted the stage to thunderous applause.
*
‘So, Mervyn, what made you come up with the idea of the Styrax? What made you come up with a race of supercars who rebel and take over their planet?’
‘What
made
me? Our audience figures made me.’
There was a well-rehearsed ripple of laughter as Mervyn gave his equally well-rehearsed opening line, of which the attached anecdote had become part of fan folklore since it started popping up on convention videos. Mervyn gave a ‘but seriously though’ cough and continued. ‘Well… I had been scratching my head all day thinking about what we could possibly do to open series two with a bang, and Nicholas thought it would be a great idea to have an original and distinctive new monster to kick things off.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Nicholas, deadpan. ‘Brilliant idea of mine… To have an original and distinctive monster…’
‘…And of course he left
me
with the task of coming up with said original and distinctive monster…’
Nicholas gave a theatrical sigh and pulled an expression of world-weariness.
‘Well it was my idea, Merv… You can’t expect me to do
everything…
’
More titters from the darkness.
‘Well I was stumped, wasn’t I, Nicholas?’
Nicholas dipped in with practised ease.
‘Oh yes, he was indeed. He was pacing up and down in the production office just above TC8 with a face like thunder, shouting “I must have a monster! I must have a monster!” I popped my head round the door, and said “Merve, love, if you’ll just let me finish this scene, I’ll come out there and shout with you.”’
Another familiar burst of laughter and applause. Nicholas had done nothing of the sort, of course. It was a spontaneous ad-lib from a panel some years ago which went down very well, so it had stayed in. It helped to ‘oil the wheels’ in the telling of a tale that had already been told too many times before, and wasn’t really true in the first place.
Mervyn continued the anecdote. ‘When I finished that evening—still scratching my head over the lack of a monster—I found I couldn’t leave. My car had been boxed in by a rather stylish Austin 11. I was stuck there for two hours—security was ringing round like mad trying to find the owner, and while I was sitting there on the wall with darkness falling like snow around me—not to mention the
snow
falling like snow around me—I realised that I was in thrall to this damn machine. Of course, this was the mid 80s, and the fact the country had been held to ransom by weekly fuel crises was still in living memory… I was, in effect, a slave to my car at that moment, so what would it be like if they really took over? So the idea came there and then.’
Nicholas was smirking now.
‘So I rushed up to the production office to tell Nicholas, only to find he’d disappeared… He’d been called out by security to move his new car…’
‘…My newly bought Austin 11…’ supplied Nicholas.
‘…Which was thoughtlessly blocking in the script editor of
Vixens from The Void
,’ completed Mervyn.
There was a warm round of applause, as if they had just completed a particularly good card trick.
Simon Josh intervened. ‘Now, Mervyn, you left the show at that point. To quote a certain programme starring Patrick McGoohan: “Why did you resign?”’
‘Well, you know what old Samuel Johns used to say… “It’s when your memories are at their happiest, that it’s time to say goodbye…”’
An appreciative murmur of recognition spread around the room as the fans recognised a notoriously meaningless quote from an old actor from series one of
Vixen
s, who was too bored and drunk to do series two.
‘Seriously?’
‘No.’
Laughter.
‘It was creative differences,’ said Mervyn solemnly. ‘I could no longer work under this ogre beside me.’
Nicholas put on a ferocious ‘Grrr!’ face to the audience, which elicited a shriek of delight.
‘But then you suddenly came back a month later. Why was that?’
‘I’d changed my aftershave,’ quipped Nicholas.
Bernard had been lounging sullenly in the end chair since the panel started. Suddenly, however, he spoke in a bored voice. ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with fact that, if you had invented the Styrax while you were script editor, they would technically be BBC property and you wouldn’t keep the rights?’
Mervyn was annoyed. Bernard was technically half-right, but the part he chose to get wrong made Mervyn look like a money-grubbing bastard.
‘Well Bernard hasn’t got it
quite
right…’ He stole a glance to his left, where Bernard had returned to his sullen state, idly staring at the Happy Traveller’s light fittings.
‘We’d had a bit of a crisis with our scripts. As usual. A couple of new chaps we were trying out for the series hadn’t come up with the goods… Andrew Jamieson had let us down…’ He saved a frisson of comic world-weariness for his last word: ‘…Again.’
On hearing his name being taken in vain, fellow
Vixens
writer Andrew Jamieson waved cheerfully from the back of the hall where he was leaning on a loudspeaker (on which also perched a large glass of wine). No one on the stage could see him in the darkness, but there was a delightedly ragged cheer from fans at the back, who suddenly realised a celebrity was in their midst.
‘As a lot of you here know well, the BBC used to frown on script editors commissioning themselves. They saw it as a sort of self-nepotism. I’d already asked permission to write a substantial amount of the previous series when things started to get a bit fraught…’
Bernard tittered to himself, and Mervyn could have sworn he heard him say ‘Well, naturally’ under his breath.
‘…So in case they said “no” this time, I removed myself from the in-house job, and that way I was able to write the story.’
Bernard swivelled his eyes towards Mervyn, ‘…And that way, as an ordinary freelance writer, you were able to keep sole rights and cash in on the merchandise. Funny that…’
Mervyn had had enough. ‘All this interest in why I resigned! It’s all very flattering, but this conversation does seem to be getting very “me, me, me”. Let’s talk about why someone else resigned. How about you, Bernard? Why did you resign?’ Mervyn slapped his forehead in mock realisation. ‘Oh, I’m sorry! I forgot. You didn’t resign, did you? You got sacked. That’s right. You got fired. For nicking props off the set. Oh yes. How could I have forgotten?’
Bernard’s eyes became slits.
He stood up, and started to leave the stage in a huff. Then turned round abruptly and lunged, punching Mervyn full on the jaw.
‘You smarmy little shit!’ he yelled.
The room erupted. Two stewards in mauve sweatshirts raced to the stage, helping a dazed Mervyn to his feet. A third steward attempted to restrain Bernard, only for Bernard to swerve around him and knock Mervyn off his feet again.
Nicholas lunged out of his own chair and, in a surprising move that was distinctly at odds with his camp persona, grabbed Bernard’s legs in a neat little rugby tackle, which sent Bernard staggering backwards into Mervyn, who was struggling to get up for the third time.
Mervyn staggered…
Fell off the edge of the stage…
And…
Right on top of the Styrax prop.
The fibreglass and papier-mâché disintegrated, and Mervyn was enveloped in a huge mushroom cloud of paper, glue and paint flecks.
The fans were stunned into silence. The young man who showed Mervyn the ‘restored footage’ on his laptop was the nearest. He was frozen in shock, looking at the remains of the Styrax and the body lying in the middle of it. His hands were clapped to his mouth at the horror before him. There was no restoring this old effect, no matter how many hours spent on Adobe AfterEffects.
*
A St John’s Ambulance man rushed into the hall, carrying a first aid box. ‘Where is he?’ he panted.
‘Down here,’ a man pointed. ‘He went down quite hard. I think his nose is broken.’
The crowd parted to give access.
‘Are you all right?’ the St John’s Ambulance man asked. ‘Can you hear me?’
Simon Josh’s eyes fluttered open. ‘I think so,’ he said drowsily, trying to sit up from where he’d suddenly collapsed, eight seconds after Mervyn fell off the stage. ‘I’m sorry, I think I must have fainted. I…’ he levered himself up on an elbow, ‘…I thought for a moment that someone had crushed my Styrax Sentinel.’
At precisely the wrong time, a steward came up to Simon with an armful of papier-mâché. ‘What should I do with this?’
