Nerd Do Well

For Matilda Belle

Although these acknowledgements relate specifically to the process of writing the book, there are a few more general ‘thank yous’ I would like to express. Firstly, my mum, Gill, and my dad, John, for their endless encouragement and support over the years. It has been the foundation of everything I have achieved and a debt I can never repay. My wonderful wife, Maureen, for her understanding and willingness to be literally left holding the baby during the more intensive periods of writing this book. As always, I look forward to her thoughts the most. I should also give tribute to my sister, Katy, whose nerd credentials have often outstripped my own. Thanks for putting me on to all those great TV shows and being Robin to my Batman (I am of course talking about Carrie Kelly, the female Robin from
The Dark Knight Returns
). My brothers, Michael and Steven, for allowing me to make films with their toys and break them in the process. It was more than worth it for
Bogorof the Bad, Parts
1 and 2 (my unseen first features). My agent, Dawn Sedgwick, for looking after me with such tireless devotion and having a confidence in me that even I didn’t have. I’m not always the easiest person to motivate but her persistence in bringing out the best in me has never faltered and for that I am eternally grateful. Nods of thanks must also go to Alex Pudney and Nicola Mason Shakespeare who work by Dawn’s side, chasing me down with pressing matters as the
FBI
chase down elusive terrorists. My editor, Ben Dunn, at Century who has demonstrated a seemingly indestructible patience in dealing with me. His enthusiasm, understanding and belief in my capacity to finish and indeed start this venture have been remarkable in light of my infuriating indecision and tendency to procrastinate. Elsewhere on the third floor of the Random House building on the banks of the River Thames, I’d like to thank Briony Nelder for looking after me so completely during the writing process and being someone with whom I could freely discuss the complexities of the final season of
Lost
. Katie Duce for assisting Ben in helping shape my somewhat shapeless train of thought into, of all things, an actual book. And Jack Fogg, not only for sounding like the alter ego of a Victorian superhero but for being part of the team that made me feel so welcome and, dare I say it, valued at Century. Thanks also go to Tony Kelly, the marvellously intuitive and gifted photographer, who I roped in for the cover shoot and who always makes things fun, and the great Simon Bisley for his spot-on rendition of me and Canterbury. And lastly, although their job has been to feature in this book rather than contribute to it, I would like to thank my dearest friends and closest collaborators for the material and, above all, the love. Michael Smiley, Edgar Wright, Jessica Hynes, Nira Park and of course, my inspiration and best friend, Nicholas John Frost.

The cave seemed to go on forever, a vast tectonic bubble receding to an infinity of shadow. Powerful spotlights lit various areas where trophies and keepsakes hinted at past adventure and an array of impressive vehicles gathered: an awesome assemblage of potential and kinetic energy. Elsewhere, the blackness folded in on itself, swirling into corners, endless, impenetrable, much like the mind of the man who sat at its flickering heart.

The hub was comprised of a central console, surrounded by various readouts and screens. Data from across the globe ticked into the mainframe to be displayed, analysed and evaluated by the figure sat in thoughtful repose amid the array. This was his lair, his base, the place he felt most relaxed, most centred, most at home; it was like the Bat Cave but with faster Wi-Fi.

Simon Pegg scanned the myriad infoscreens, searching, penetrating, squinting in a way that made him even more handsome. Across the feedbank, a dizzying strobe of information flickered before his, steel blue with a hint of rust, eyes. Stocks and shares rose and fell, disasters, wars, a cat attacking a baby on YouTube, an old woman ravaged by hunger holding out her hands in supplication to a faceless militia man, impassively pointing a rifle at her head.

‘It’s not fair,’ Pegg’s bitter mumble cracked across his lips. ‘That cat should be put down!’

‘There’s a telephone call for you, sir,’ a metallic voice chirped over the intercom.

‘Jesus, Canterbury,’ Pegg yelped, ‘can’t you make a ding-dong noise or something? It really makes me jump when you just speak like that.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ apologised the faithful robotic butler, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Pegg, putting his feet up on the dashboard and pretending not to be freaked out. ‘Who is it? Lord Black, I suppose, with another fiendish plot to bring about the end of the world.’

‘No, sir,’ replied Canterbury patiently.

‘Good,’ huffed Pegg. ‘I hate that twat.’

‘It’s your editor, sir. Ben from Century,’ replied the automaton gravely.

‘Holy shit,’ muttered Pegg darkly.

‘Shall I bring the phone down, sir?’ enquired Canterbury.

‘Can’t you just patch it through?’ whined Pegg like a teenager who didn’t want to go to the shops for his mum because he was about to have another wank.

‘No, sir,’ replied Canterbury. ‘It’s on your iPhone, which was down the side of the sofa in the drawing room.’

‘I wondered where that was,’ said Pegg, brightening slightly. ‘Bring it down.’

‘Very well, sir,’ returned Canterbury, seemingly unaffected by Pegg’s erratic mood shifts.

‘Oh, and bring me a Coke Zero,’ said Pegg, signing off.

He scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes, knowing full well what Ben from Century wanted and worrying slightly that his editor would think his telecommunications system was rubbish. On one of the infoscreens another YouTube baby emitted a classic guff, firing a cloud of talc into the air from its freshly powdered anus. Pegg laughed hysterically for two minutes before his guffaws subsided and he wiped the tears from his eyes, thus missing
CCTV
footage of an armed robbery approximately two miles down the road. He eased his demeanour back into seriousness with a loud sigh, and then shook his head with a chuckle, remembering the cloud-farting baby.

‘
DING-DONG
,’ said Canterbury over the intercom.

‘FUCK!’ said Pegg, clutching his heart dramatically. ‘I didn’t mean say “ding-dong”, I meant get a thing that makes a ding-dong noise.’

‘It seems to me, sir,’ reasoned Canterbury, trying not to sound patronising, ‘that any noise I employ to alert you to my presence will sound without warning and give you a fright.’

‘What do you want, Canterbury?’ growled Pegg.

‘We’ve only got those Diet Cokes sir, the ones reserved for guests,’ replied his faithful mechanised friend.

‘Gak!’ retched Pegg, ‘Everyone knows Diet Coke marketing specifically targets women and effeminates and I am neither.’

‘There is regular Coke sir,’ offered Canterbury. ‘The Ocado man delivered a six pack by mistake.’

‘You allowed fatty Coke into this house?’ Pegg whispered, secretly pleased.

Canterbury said nothing.

‘I suppose it will have to do,’ huffed Pegg quickly, ‘but check the order next time. Remember that whole Volvic/Evian debacle?’

Pegg’s response was met with an impassive acknowledgement from his chamberlain and silence fell across the cave once more. Pegg felt a tinge of guilt in his gut and fingered the intercom.

‘Canterbury?’

Nothing.

‘Come on, Canterbury, I know you can hear me,’ insisted Pegg. ‘It’s not like you can hang up, the com-link’s inside your head . . . Canterbury?’

An electronic bell sounded to Pegg’s right, making him jump. The door to the elevator opened revealing Canterbury holding an iPhone and a Coke Zero.

‘Why didn’t you answer me, Canterbury?’ enquired Pegg, barely concealing a smile.

‘I was in the elevator,’ replied the stuffy robot who was absolutely nothing like C-3PO, ‘the signal’s not very good.’

Canterbury stood at roughly six foot tall; his torso was a barrel of sleek black metal, his arms and legs, an array of titanium bones and functional hydraulics. Despite being a super-advanced A1 processor, driving a fully articulated, humanoid endoskeleton, there was something old-fashioned about his appearance, as if he’d been built in a bygone age or had stepped out of the film Robots, starring Ewan McGregor and Robin Williams. In an effort to make him appear more modern, Pegg had welded a small flashing stud to the automaton’s left aural receptor. He had regretted it later but found it hard to remove. It was the eighties when he had installed the accessory, a time when men wearing earrings was cool and not in the least bit twatty.

Pegg smiled that famous smile that inspired instant sexual arousal in women and turned men into benders.

‘I’m sorry I got annoyed about the fatty Coke, Canterbury,’ Pegg said.

‘Quite all right, sir,’ replied Canterbury, and although not possessing a mouth in the human sense, his oral cavity being represented by a slot, behind which was positioned a vocal synthesiser, Pegg couldn’t help feeling his old automated companion was smiling.

‘Your phone, sir,’ said Canterbury, passing over the handset. Pegg winked at the shiny butler as he put the iPhone to his nicely sculptured ear.

‘This is Pegg,’ said Pegg.

‘Have you done it yet?’ said an unpleasant voice at the other end of the line.

‘Mmmmm?’ said Pegg innocently.

‘You were supposed to have written the ten thousand words by this morning’, the voice continued like a sex pest.

‘Yes, but –’

‘That was the deal, Simon. If you don’t meet your deadlines I’m going to have to ask you to return your advance. I don’t care if you are a rugged, sexually devastating superhero.’

‘Relax, Ben, I have it all under control,’ countered Pegg, his voice suddenly resembling that of Roger Moore (in the seventies).

‘I’m not so sure,’ snarled the voice. Pegg detected an air of smugness in the voice of Ben from Century (a subsidiary of Random House Publishing).

‘Are you a bummer tied to a tree?’ enquired Pegg smoothly.

‘What?’ Ben replied.

‘Answer the question,’ insisted Pegg patiently. ‘Are you a bummer tied to a tree?’

‘No,’ faltered Ben.

‘
BUMMER
ON
THE
LOOSE!’ trumpeted Pegg, terminating the call with a triumphant flourish.

Pegg chuckled, then looked across at Canterbury, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

‘Looks like I’ll be going up to the office for a while,’ Pegg sighed. ‘Will you be OK?

‘Of course, sir,’ replied Canterbury. There was an almost imperceptible catch in his voice, a flicker of static in his vo-com that others would have missed. Pegg heard it, though, and it warmed his heart.

‘I guess I won’t have to drink this after all,’ Pegg winked at Canterbury, handing back the fatty Coke. His face stiffened as he punched up the recent calls menu on his phone and dialled the number for Century.

‘You win for now but believe me, four-eyes,’ whispered Pegg to his bespectacled literary contact, ‘this isn’t over.’

‘I’m glad you’ve decided to see sense, Simon. I expect those ten thousand words in the morning.’

Pegg hung up without saying goodbye, which was impol ite and he knew it. He also did the finger at the phone and said a rude word.

‘Will you be gone long, sir?’ Canterbury enquired.

‘Not if I can help it,’ replied Pegg, standing up to reveal his great body which was muscular but not too big (like Brad Pitt in
Fight Club
). ‘I just need to find a little inspiration.’

It was never my intention to write an autobiography. The very notion made me uneasy. You see them congesting the bookshop shelves at Christmas. Rows of needy smiles, sad clowns and serious eyes, proclaiming faux-modest life stories, with titles such as
This Is Me
, or
Why, Me?
, or
Me, Me, Me
. I didn’t want to do that, it’s not really me. And who cares anyway? I don’t and I’m the faux-modest sad clown with the needy smile and serious eyes who has to write the damn thing. There’s something presumptuous in writing an autobiography, as if people’s interest in your life is a given. Fair enough if your life is full of orgies; and murder and murder orgies, you can assume a little interest from outside; that stuff flies off the shelves. However, geeky boy comes good? I didn’t see the appeal.

What I actually wanted to do was write fiction about a suave, handsome superhero and his robotic butler. The story of a tricked-out vigilante, with innumerable gadgets, a silver tongue and deadly fists; like Batman without the costume and a more pointed ‘gay subtext’. Sure, it’s not particularly original but it’s far more interesting than my life. I don’t even have a robotic butler. Not any more.

The literary public would be far better served with heroic tales of daring, midnight infiltrations and hip-smashing sexual prowess. The man I met from the publishing company, however, thought it would be better to write something a little more personal, more real.

‘Oh boring,’ I screamed at him, clearing my desk in one decisive swipe. How could my own mundane personal experi ence possibly outstrip the adventures of a man with a bullwhip and forty throwing knives concealed in the lining of his snug-fitting dinner jacket? ‘Trust me,’ said Ben, winning me over with a smile that reminded me of Indiana Jones and subsequently that I had subconsciously stolen the bullwhip thing from
Raiders of the Lost Ark
.