Nerd Do Well (31 page)

I had also worked as a lifeguard at the Gloucester Leisure Centre by this time and channelled much of my poolside experience into my act, often performing actually wearing my lifeguarding uniform. My unrequited love shtick had developed specifically into a series of poems and jokes about being obsessed with the actress Diane Keaton. There was an agenda at work here. I had always felt that Eggy Helen (cast your minds back a few chapters – I punched a window – keep up) resembled the actress and my comic proclamations of love were a way of publicly expressing my affections for her in the face of her apparent indifference in the real world.

I Love You

I love you

I love you because

I cannot have you

Because I don’t want to

Because you hurt me

Because I drown profound

In every thing that you do

In every thing that you say

In every thing (?) that you are

In every single way

And because you look a bit like Diane Keaton

By the time the David Icke and the Orphans of Jesus shows started, Eggy Helen and I had finally got together, but I persisted with the Keaton routines because they were whimsical and effective and wound inextricably into my material, which had begun to expand, edging out the poetry into more anecdotal stand-up and silly stories. I only once strayed away from my obsession with Diane Keaton, with an ode to another gorgeous Hollywood actress, Sigourney Weaver.

Sigourney Weaver

Sigourney

You make me feel . . .

Like countless innuendo

You drive me round the bend

Oh Sig!

What will I tell Diane?

At the time of David Icke and the Orphans of Jesus, I had become obsessed with Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer’s surreal variety show
Big Night Out
, which I had accidentally taped when my
VCR
continued recording after Woody Allen’s
Play It Again, Sam
(starring Allen and Diane Keaton, naturally). The show was a joyously surreal, wilfully obscure cabaret that somehow made you feel like part of an exclusive club made up of people who ‘got it’. Endlessly quotable and always essential viewing (I eschewed live images of Thatcher finally leaving Number Ten to watch it),
Big Night Out
seemed brilliantly subversive proof that the minutiae of your own personal, very specific and silly sense of humour could translate into a performance that would appeal to a large audience, not just friends.

Encouraged by their lunacy, I began to introduce more absurdist concepts into my act, which sat well with the goldfish and the lifeguarding uniform. My stage persona took the form of a lovestruck, congenital liar who worked in a swimming pool, claiming that films such as
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
and
RoboCop
as well as comic-book characters such as Batman and Spider-Man had been ripped off from events in his own life, Spider-Man eventually becoming the basis of a later audition for
Six Pairs of Pants
and the sketch that won Jessica Hynes a place on the show.

The success rate of the erstwhile members of David Icke and the Orphans of Jesus has been fairly impressive. Dominik Diamond went on to become an accomplished broadcaster, Myfanwy Moore moved behind the camera and became a highly influential producer at the
BBC
and was instrumental in bringing me and another member of the group to the attention of the Paramount Comedy Channel in the mid-nineties, Barnaby Power continues to work in theatre as an actor, Jason Bradbury is now host of the hugely popular
Gadget Show
on Channel Five, and David Williams changed his name to Walliams and joined forces with a young graduate called Matt the year after I left. Sadly, I have no idea what happened to them.

Somewhere amid the cotton-wool fog that was Pegg’s consciousness, he became sensible of voices raised in confrontation around him.

One of the voices, a deep reptilian drawl, seemed to resonate in the pit of his stomach, as though he had swallowed a bee or a dildo.

Another gave him a different sensation that he couldn’t quite decipher in the mists of his addled perception. As things became clearer, he realised the voice was that of Murielle Burdot and the sensation he felt was the sickening sting of betrayal. He tried to utter an expletive but discovered his mouth had been taped up.

He was, in some measure, relieved, as the words he was about to utter were a bit sexist. The first voice, he realised, was that of Lord Black.

Pegg opened his eyes. The tall masked figure of his arch-enemy stood directly across the room from him, next to a drinks cabinet, the doors of which, Pegg ruminated, were shaped like boobs.

‘Aaahhh,’ said Black, like a twat. ‘Look who’s decided to join us. I was beginning to worry you might remain unconscious forever and that would have been a distinct shame.’

Pegg flashed his eyes at Black, unable to deliver the devastating retort his now fully functioning mind had taken milliseconds to formulate. Instead, he tried to give Black the finger but found his hands were tied.

‘Please,’ implored Murielle, ‘you said ee was not to be ’armed.’

‘Silence!’ shouted Lord Black, raising a hand to the deceitful French beauty.

Pegg similarly gesticulated but, being bound hand and foot, communicated his feelings with a convulsive jerk and a wiggle of his eyebrows. Murielle understood what Pegg had meant by this; the meaning was obvious.

‘Don’t pretend you care about me, you treacherous harpy. I trusted you, loved you even, and what do I get in return for giving myself to someone? Screwed, that’s what. Is it any wonder I’m such a recluse? There’s no going back from this, Murielle, you’re nothing to me now, nothing at all. Any vestige of love I felt for you drained from my body with my consciousness after that dart stuck in my neck. You’re not Murielle any more, Murielle, you’re just the Scarlet Panther, and panthers get hunted down and put on display and I won’t be happy until you’ve been stuffed and mounted and hung on the wall of my study or maybe the games room.’

She hung her head in shame.

‘May I interest you in something to drink?’ Black offered cordially, gesturing towards the boob cupboard.

Pegg’s eyes flicked across to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It was nine o’clock in the morning. This man was out of his mind. It was insanity to start drinking at this time of the day unless you were an alcoholic or a shift worker. Pegg shook his head, the fire of disapproval flashing in his eyes.

‘You don’t have to have a ‘drink’ drink. You could always have a Coke Zero,’ said Black with a knowing sneer. Pegg’s eyes communicated an unmistakable ‘Fuck you, smarty-pants’.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Black, uncorking a bottle of 800-year-old Famous Grouse and pouring a generous measure into a crystal tumbler. ‘I suppose you must be wondering what this is all about,’ Black continued, taking a sip and nodding appreciatively.

Pegg looked around the room, assessing the situation, looking for opportunities, weighing up his chances of escape, should he find a way to shed his bonds. The room had four doors, each one guarded by a goon in dark glasses, with an H&K machine gun slung across his chest. Even if Pegg could shake off his shackles, there was no way he’d be able to take on four heavily armed henchmen and Lord Black. The odds were definitely against him and a sense of defeat enveloped him as he slumped back into his chair. Just then, he noticed the inert figure of Canterbury sat in a Parker Knoll armchair to his right. He looked at his cybernetic friend and softened for a split second. Of course, Canterbury hadn’t malfunctioned on the jet, he had somehow seen through Muri— the Scarlet Panther’s duplicity, picking up on micro-fluctuations in body temperature and behavioural tells, which identified her as an enemy, even before Canterbury’s amiable conscious mind had followed suit. Poor Canterbury, he had been loyal to his master on the deepest level and Pegg had repaid him by enforcing program restrictions, sanctioning his directives and being a cunt.

‘Terribly sweet really,’ sneered Black. ‘He carried you in here and sat down, good as gold, without a hint of resistance. I think he was protecting you, you know. I think he knew I’d kill you if he put up a fight. He picked you up, brought you in here and switched himself off. He hasn’t made a peep for hours.’

Pegg looked at his beloved metal compadre, searching his rigid metal endoskeleton for signs of life. If only he could get Canterbury to reactivate, he might stand a chance of putting a plan into action.

Then . . .

He saw it. The glimmer of hope he had been searching for. Blinking at a steady pulse, just beneath his left aural receptor, was Canterbury’s earring. The jammy bastard had been awake all along. Pegg’s body filled with elation.

‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’ persisted Black. ‘I’m about to tell you why I set you up and it’s going to take a while so you might as well be comfortable.’

Pegg nodded enthusiastically.

‘Splendid,’ brayed Black. ‘Some fresh juice perhaps, or a glass of Volvic?’

Pegg shook his head.

‘Evian?’ suggested Black.

Pegg shook his head even more fervently and nodded down at his stomach, widening his eyes to ensure Black knew he was indicating to something specific, which is technically illegal in charades.

‘Are you hungry?’ smiled Black.

Pegg wished he could touch his nose and point at Black to officially confirm he had guessed right, but the enthusiasm of his response to Black’s suggestion was enough.

‘Ah, breakfast, you would like some breakfast wouldn’t you?’ declared Black.

Pegg nodded with childish vigour, making his eyes smile as much as he could.

‘Some Weetabix perhaps?’ Black suggested.

Pegg shook his head, frowning, as if Weetabix tasted like Satan’s wang.

‘A full English?’ Black said triumphantly, convinced that Pegg would relish a plate of sausage, egg, bacon, beans and/or a fried slice.

Pegg was tempted, but rejected the idea with a furious shake of his head.

Black frowned, considering what else he had to offer. Pegg’s eyes burrowed into him, willing his arch-enemy to offer the specific item he craved so very much.

‘I’ve got it,’ said Black with a triumphant flourish. ‘Toast.’

It happened in an instant and was over before Black realised what was happening. Canterbury stood up, his body shell unfolding like an origami swan dropped into a bowl of warm water. His shoulder-mounted rockets flipped out of his epaulettes. The calculations took less than a second, far less time than for the goons to shoulder and aim their automatic weapons. Four rockets deployed with a searing fizz; an instant later, four obliterated bodies slumped against four doors. A thin, blinding laser beam shot from Canterbury’s ocular sensors and with breathtaking precision melted the locks on every door, sealing them shut against the shouts of concern erupting without.

With the reflexes of her feline jungle namesake, Murielle dived to the floor as Lord Black pulled a long silver revolver from inside his coat, levelling it at Pegg. With all his strength, Pegg kicked the coffee table across the room, sending it crashing into Black’s shins; he squealed in a way that brought a smile to Pegg’s face. By the time Black had rallied, Canterbury was upon him, his metal fingers closing around his throat, lifting him three feet off the ground.

Pegg gave a muffled shout. Canterbury’s head swivelled like an owl’s, looking back at his prone master. Something passed between them. A look of uncertainty from Canterbury and nod of assurance from Pegg, whose eyes said it all: ‘You can do it.’ With three short bursts of his face laser, Canterbury freed his master of his restraints and gag with staggering pinpoint accuracy.

‘Impressive,’ smiled Pegg. ‘Most impressive.’

‘You’ll find I’m full of surprises,’ replied Canterbury, and in this simple nod to
The Empire Strikes Back
, the second and best of the Star Wars films, all was right between them. They were friends again, perhaps stronger than they had ever been. Pegg could have kissed his robotic friend but he wasn’t gay or into robots (not since he’d met Murielle at least).

‘Now let us finally find out what Lord Black looks like, shall we?’ said Pegg, hoping he was all deformed and gross because he needed a laugh.

Murielle had managed to get to her feet. She looked at Pegg half impressed, half bereft. She made to speak but Pegg cut her off.

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ he said angrily with a hint of sadness and regret and resignation and sadness.

Canterbury pulled Black’s head round and clasped the corner of the mask in his titanium fingers. He took one look at Pegg, who nodded back at him. The mask came away easily. Pegg staggered back, momentarily thrown.

‘You!’

In-betweening

A
p.

fter graduating from one of Britain’s most august educational establishments with a highly respectable degree, I went to work in Debenhams, Broadmead, as a toy demonstrator, trying to persuade people to purchase those irritating battery-operated dogs that yipped and performed a backwards somersault every 15.7 seconds until the AAs ran out or your soul farted out of your arse.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I wanted to do with my life. Towards the end of my academic career, I had become involved in experimental theatre and performed several shows with a company called Bodies in Flight, which included David Icke and Carrier Pigeons alumnus, Barney Power, and Eggy Helen, my now serious girlfriend (whose affections I had finally won on the morning the Gulf War started, although I don’t think the incidences were connected).

I continued to work with the company, even as I began to get more gigs as a stand-up comic. A few doors down from my beloved Forever People comic shop, on Park Street in Bristol, a pub called the Mauretania began running a weekly comedy club called the Tongue in Cheek. A compère would introduce two local acts, with an act from the London circuit closing the show. After the second interval, a few minutes would be set aside for an ‘open spot’, which despite sounding like a suppurating sore was actually an unpaid opportunity for untested acts to prove their worth before a live crowd.