Nerd Do Well (25 page)

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.

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 Grill, 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.

‘A multinational crime syndicate is moving cheap peanuts into Guyana and undercutting the local farmers. It’s all here,’ said Pegg, indicating his info-hub. ‘I’ve got to stop them!’

Murielle’s hands were suddenly clasped around either side of Pegg’s face. She looked deeply into his eyes, bringing him back into the room before she spoke.

‘One thing at a time, mon amour,’ she said firmly/gently. ‘You cannot be everywhere at once. Eet’s impossible, even for you. We need to get back the Star of Nefertiti or there won’t be any peanuts left to smuggle.’

Pegg nodded sombrely and said something Murielle could not make out due to her hands squashing his mouth shut.

‘Pardon?’ she half laughed, trying to fathom the gorgeous enigma that sat in front of her. She released his face and brushed the hair that had fallen delightfully into his eyes, giving him the appearance of a young Hugh Grant with more conventional teeth.

‘I was just saying, you’re really squashing my face and I can’t talk properly,’ Pegg offered sheepishly.

A broad grin spread across Murielle’s face, her wide mouth bending into an irresistible bow, revealing her dazzling white teeth. Her beauty was truly breathtaking. She made Betty Blue look like Hughie Green, and staring at her for too long could lead to disorientation and mild arrhythmia. Pegg broke into a similarly devastating smile, which developed into a chuckle. Murielle laughed in response, her infectious chortle building in the back of her throat, before escaping her lips. Pegg reciprocated, releasing the ball of tension in his gut as a hearty cackle, which burst from his diaphragm like big hiccups. Murielle’s own titterances became a fully fledged giggle which vibrated her shoulders violently and forced her head back, exposing her soft neck and giving clear passage for her deep throaty yuks. Pegg’s laughter intensified into silent shuddering, turning his face bright red, the veins in his forehead protruding with alarming prominence as Murielle whooped in an enormous gulp of breath to facilitate the next wave of hilarity. At this point, Pegg let go a tiny squeak from between his muscled buttocks. It was a barely audible toot but it was enough to send both of them into convulsions of breathless, screaming guffaws, which propelled both of them off the bed on to the floor in an undignified heap, and reduced Pegg to a screaming cramp of convulsive sobs. At this point, it was difficult to tell whether it was laughter or tears, such was the level of self-pissing.

The door suddenly splintered inwards, silencing the helpless pair as they spun round to face whatever had interrupted the hilarity. Canterbury stood in the doorway, his robotic eyes glowing deep red, his chest plate open to reveal a mini Gatling gun, which had already started to rotate in anticipation of its spitting a deadly report. Both of Canterbury’s hands had retracted into his cuffs and been replaced by razor-sharp blades which glinted in the dim light of the in-flight boudoir. His shoulders too had flipped open to reveal two epaulettes racked with deadly mini rockets, three on each side, swivelling in response to some silent subroutine emanating from the robot seneschal’s silicon synapses.

‘What the fuck?’ said Pegg in a voice higher than he thought he was capable of.

Canterbury didn’t respond; instead he simply stared, rocking slightly on the spot, the whirr of the Gatling gun increasing in intensity.

‘Canterbury!’ Pegg shouted, clapping his hands together.

Canterbury’s fearsome armoury gave no sign of disengaging. Lights atop the shoulder-mounted rockets changed from red to green, as Canterbury’s body tensed as if bracing itself.

‘Mon dieu,’ whispered Murielle in French.

‘CANTERBURY!’ Pegg barked. ‘Cessation code roger, roger, charlie, zero. Engage!’

Canterbury’s red eyes flickered momentarily before he straightened, shaking his metal head like a guest on the Paul McKenna show who had just spent ten minutes farting around like a chicken.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ stumbled Canterbury. ‘I heard screams over the intercom and assumed you were in distress. I thought perhaps the jet had been infiltrated and you were in need of some assistance. Combat mode initiated involuntarily, sir. It wasn’t my choice.’

Pegg got up from off the floor, composing himself, which was difficult considering he had tears in his eyes and a
DVD
stuck to his face.

‘Murielle and I were just laughing at something,’ explained Pegg awkwardly.

‘What was it?’ asked Canterbury, hoping to distract from his faux pas.

‘You had to be there really,’ muttered Pegg, still stunned.

Canterbury sagged slightly. If he were human, one might have taken the gesture for shame.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I did not mean to intrude.’ The cybernetic concierge didn’t leave; instead he stood, as if awaiting retribution.

‘It’s OK,’ said Pegg softly, ‘although I am worried that you somehow self-enabled full combat mode without my authorisation. There might have been a nasty accident. I trust you completely but I think it would be best if we implemented a voice-activation procedure to prevent it happening again. From now on, the trigger for multiple-attack deployment will be the word “toast”.’

‘Won’t that make breakfast treacherous, sir?’ Canterbury faltered.

‘I’LL
JUST
HAVE
ALPEN!’ Pegg roared, surprising both the robot and the nude French lady.

‘I’m sorry.’ Canterbury hung his head.

Murielle looked from the android to the master then back again, aware that Pegg had been overly harsh but unsure whether or not she should intercede.

‘There was one other thing, sir,’ Canterbury said quietly.

‘What?’ said Pegg, not looking up.

‘We have touched down in Hendon Park as you instructed. Lord Black’s town house is less than a mile away. Might I suggest we take the Peggcycles and make our way to the rear entrance? The property is guarded by a number of henchmen who get tougher and more dangerous the closer you get to Lord Black.’

‘Very well,’ said Pegg. ‘We’ll leave in fifteen minutes.’

Canterbury seemed about to say something but stopped himself. He moved off, leaving Murielle and Pegg alone.

‘Why were you so hard on eem?’ asked Murielle. ‘Ee was only trying to ’elp.’

‘That’s not the point,’ said Pegg. ‘He’s a lethal weapon in that state. If anything had happened to you, I –’

Murielle pushed her finger to his lips, crushing them gently against his teeth.

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t know eef I could willingly go into this situation knowing exactly what I ’ave to lose.’

Pegg nodded, without looking at her. She removed her finger from his lips.

‘Let’s go get the Star of Nefertiti,’ he said, finding the strength in his voice once again. ‘There will be time for proclamations when we return.’ Pegg strode towards the door. He was energised, charged with a determination that made all previous missions seem somehow trite. He wanted to tell Murielle how he felt but knew he must resolve the matter of the magic diamond first. His motivation to foil Lord Black was now greater even than the desire to save the world. He was going to end this and nothing was going to stop him.

‘Wait!’ said Murielle, a hint of desperation in her voice. ‘We should get dressed first.’

Summer of ’83

I
p.

n 1983, I fell in love with a French girl called Murielle Burdot. She was an exchange student who had come over to England to stay with Ann Tickner, the girl I was snogging on the floor when my friend’s dad walked in on the bacchanalian teen party many chapters ago. Ann and I had dated briefly in a kissing-the-cloak-bays fashion but had split up after a massive two weeks, as one does at that age – I seem to remember her getting a controversial perm but I’m sure it had no bearing on the break down of our relationship – and after a similarly brief period of post-relationship grumpiness, we became good friends again.

Ann lived in the old part of Upton St Leonards, near a farm property where she kept a white horse called Boots. I first met Murielle at the gate to a field where Boots grazed and impressed her no end by falling off the handsome steed and splitting the crotch of my jeans wide open from knee to knee. I sat chastened on the ground, next to an indifferent Boots, a pair of bright purple Mark & Spencer’s briefs on sudden shocking display between my legs.