The Opposite Bastard

by Simon Packham

  De Niro’s Brazilian blend is probably the nearest thing to an orgasm I’m ever going to get. Stainless steel rips into high-roasted bean and the sense of expectation is almost unbearable. Anyone who seriously suggests that those mean-looking granules, which fraudulently bear the same name, could be mistaken for the real thing is a total retard.

  “Here we are, Michael. It’s a little experiment this morning. I’ve blended in the merest hint of Kenyan.” He holds the delicate china cup to my lips and tilts it gently towards me. I’m sure he doesn’t do it for my benefit; he just can’t bear to see anyone slurping coffee through a straw. “So, what do you think?”

  Didn’t some pop star once say that he preferred a cup of tea to having sex? Sounds like a load of Horlicks to me. If he’d said coffee I might just have been able to believe him.

  The Actor

  “OK, Michael. Stay right where you are.”

  The mark of a good coffee is the speed with which it precipitates the call to stool. This is a very good coffee, and I have to repair almost immediately to the latrines at the end of the corridor.

  Don’t you hate it when people leave books in the lavatory? I find it particularly depressing when they feature whimsical comic-book animals in baseball caps. It’s almost as sickening as actors who ‘casually’ display their Oscars in the bog to show how modest they are. If I ever live up to that wise old maxim, ‘Be here now’, it is during this most satisfactory of evacuations. Sadly it’s one of the many pleasures in life that Michael will never appreciate.

  Having paused to examine my stools for any of the early warning signs of bowel cancer (essentially blood in the faeces, which is rather more difficult to spot than you might think), I meditate for a moment on my career. It’s good to keep reminding yourself that, in this business, you never know what’s round the corner. And thank God for that, because the next phase of the operation has little to recommend it. “Righty-ho, let’s get on with this.”

  I heard a woman on the radio saying that estuarial English is the biggest turn-off in the world. Colostomy bags have got to run it a pretty close second. I swiftly locate the translucent container which protrudes from his lower abdomen, detach it gingerly, and return it with all speed to the fragranced pedal bin provided.

  “Did I ever tell you about that tour of Love on the Dole?”

  ♦

  An hour later, he’s propped up in his wheelchair, fully medicated and looking like one of those Guys that children used to charge a penny for. “Right, you should be wired for sound. Want to give it a try?”

  “Good morning, Oxford!”

  His tiresome attempts at humour are the last thing I need. “Jolly good. Now, you haven’t forgotten you’ve got a tutorial at ten?”

  “‘Why was the Revenge theme so popular in the early seventeenth century?’ Be there or be square – eh, Tim?”

  I’ve no desire for a dressing down from some shaven-headed, politically correct, loud-mouthed lesbian social worker, but surely you’re thinking what I’m thinking. I mean, what’s the point? Why waste an expensive education on someone who, clearly, has no possible use for it? “Shall I hitch you up to your computer? I need to call my agent, Bunny Michelmore at Bunny Michelmore Management, before we go.”

  Whenever I mention Bunny, an idiotic smile comes over his face. “Yeah, that’s right,” he says, “you’re really an actor, aren’t you, Tim? Would I have seen you in anything?”

  Like most performers, I’m actually rather a shy person. Talking about myself makes me feel uncomfortable. “You might have caught me in The Bill,” I shrug, “but I’m essentially a theatre animal, Michael. And I don’t suppose you get up to town much, do you? Anyway, toodle-pip.”

  “That’s someone at the door, isn’t it, Tim? Would you mind getting it for me?”

  I wish he wouldn’t keep calling me Tim. Not even Simon Butterworth calls me Tim. I only let SOWINS get away with it until we’d slept together a few times. “Oh, good grief, not another one; who could it be this time, the hang-gliding society?”

  The Virgin

  I stand outside the wheelchair guy’s rooms, cursing Philip for talking me into wearing this top.

  “What are you crying for?” he says, wiping my face with the sleeve of his trenchcoat. “I’m not asking you to sleep with him or anything!”

  “That’s not funny, Philip. Don’t be disgusting.”

  The more I think about it, the more it seems like a pants idea. And what if he does agree to play Hamlet? How am I going to be able to act with someone who can’t even tie his own shoelaces?

  “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?”

  “I can’t, not yet. I need to…fix my make-up.”

  Philip smiles and hammers on the door again. “No time for that, I’m afraid. It’s Showtime!”

  I gulp down a final mouthful of breakfast Twix. “But I don’t know what to say to him.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” says Philip, backing away from me. “Remember to text me the moment he says he’ll do it.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I told you; I’ve got a breakfast meeting with my designer. She has some very exciting ideas for Elsinore.”

  “You can’t just leave me here.”

  “You don’t expect me to hold your hand, do you?”

  “But I thought…”

  Halfway across the quad he turns and bellows, “Don’t forget to ask him his hat size.”

  The door opens. It’s the ‘lardy-arsed geriatric’ that Philip warned me about. Last time I visited, he was scouring Oxford for mature Stilton. “Well, hello. And to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “Oh, hi, I…sorry to bother you, is Michael available?”

  “You’d better come in.” Philip’s right; he does sound like a character out of one of Mummy’s favourite black-and-white movies. But I thought he was joking about the baseball cap. “And may I say how charming you look?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sorry about the smell,” he says, gesturing at the figure in the wheelchair gliding slowly towards me. “I could open a window if you like.”

  “It’s fine. I just want to speak to Michael.”

  “But I’m forgetting my manners, you must excuse me. I’m Timothy, Timothy Salt.” He pauses, as if to suggest I should have heard of him. “Michael’s carer.”

  The sweaty handshake is just about preferable to some of the slobbery kisses I’ve had to endure from Daddy’s friends. “I’m Anna Jenkins. I live on the next staircase.”

  And now he wants to tell me his life story. “Only temporary, you understand. In my other life, I tread the boards. But I like to get out into the real world now and again. And it doesn’t get much more real than this, eh, Mike?”

  I wish I had the nerve to use that expression of Philip’s about not confusing me with someone who gives a fuck. “Is that right?”

  “You’re the clarinettist, if I’m not very much mistaken.”

  “Yes, sorry about that. I hope my practice hasn’t been disturbing you guys.”

  “Not at all, dear girl; the Mozart is one of my favourite concertos, and very tricky in parts, I believe.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” says the boy in the wheelchair, coming to a halt about two feet in front of me. “He doesn’t get out much.”

  And this time I’m ready for him. This time, I behave like he’s at least the hundredth horribly deformed little person I’ve seen this morning. This time, I refuse to be thrown by an unfortunate optical illusion that makes it look like the poor guy can’t keep his eyes off my tits. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, Michael, but have you got a minute?”

  “I’ll leave you two young things to it, shall I?” says his carer, with a stomach-turning wink. “I need to speak to my agent, anyway.”

  Now that I’m alone with him, I don’t feel quite so up for it. This Aids ribbon usually serves as a sort of frontline contraceptive (“Isn’t it a drag we can’t be promiscuous
any more?”) but when I get really nervous, I find myself treating the tassels like late-twentieth-century worry beads. That smile of his is freaking me out. It’s a terrible thing to say, but it just doesn’t look right on someone in a wheelchair. “So…Michael, how are things?”

  “Fine, but I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”

  A vile blush spreads across my face like galloping syphilis. “Oh, God, was it that obvious?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Most people get a bit fazed when they meet me for the first time.”

  “I’m sorry, Michael; I think we might have got off on the wrong foot. I mean…oh, shit, what did I say that for?”

  His squeaky laughter kind of reminds me of The Chipmunks. “That’s brilliant,” he says. “You can come again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Most people treat crips like pre-watershed children. It’s just nice to hear someone swearing for a change.”

  “Is it?”

  “I can cope with walking metaphors, you know.”

  This is weird; we’re almost having a normal conversation. “When I came down to introduce myself last week, it was all a bit of a…shock. I shouldn’t have just turned up like that. You see, I didn’t realize you were a…” Oh, my God! What do they call them now? I know it’s not disabled any more, but what on earth is it?

  “Gommo, you mean?”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  “Two legs short of a cancan dancer?”

  “I didn’t mean it like…sorry, Michael, I think I’d better go.”

  “No, don’t,” he says, moving his wheelchair to block my exit. “I hate it when people tiptoe around me, that’s all.”

  I reach instinctively for my Aids ribbon. “OK, I’ll…I’ll try not to then.”

  “Just treat me like a movie star, and we’ll get along fine.”

  He is taking the piss, isn’t he? “Yes, right, I…”

  “What did you want anyway? And before you ask, I’m rubbish at netball.”

  I smile politely, not quite sure if I’m supposed to laugh out loud. “I’ve got a message from Philip Sidney.”

  “Have you now?”

  That is so tragic. It really does look like he’s ogling me. His mouth falls open and a rivulet of dribble slides slowly down his chin. He doesn’t expect me to wipe it, does he? “Are you OK, Michael? You look…weird. Do you want me to get what’s-his-name?”

  Right on cue, the carer guy bursts out of his bedroom with a can of aerosol. “Don’t mind me,” he says, spraying maniacally, “I thought this room could do with a bit of freshening up.”

  “I’m sorry, Anna. What were you saying about Philip Sidney?”

  “He thinks you’ll make a wonderful Hamlet.”

  Aerosol guy lets out an enormous stage guffaw. “Heaven forbid.”

  “Philip’s asked me to play Ophelia. And I’m really hoping that you’re going to do it too.”

  “I don’t think I’m quite…”

  It’s obviously part of the carer’s job to finish his patient’s sentences for him. “Mike’s decided that discretion is the better part of valour, haven’t you, matey? I mean, let’s be honest, Hamlet’s a tough enough challenge for any…able-bodied actor.”

  “But that’s rubbish,” I say, half meaning it. “You’d be good, Michael, I know you would.”

  “My dear girl, I’m sure your heart is in the right place. But I would hate to see Michael humiliated. As I say, I have been in the business for some years. I do know what I’m talking about.” He saunters over to Michael and ruffles his hair. “Tell her, old chum. You know it makes sense.”

  Well, that’s that, isn’t it? He’s never going to do it now. And quite frankly, I don’t blame him. Philip will just have to find another Hamlet. And I suppose I’ll have to come up with another victim for Mummy. “Fair enough, then; if that’s the way you feel, Michael, I’ll go and tell Philip the bad news.”

  The boy in the wheelchair stares hard at his carer before turning his attention back to my breasts and smiling sweetly. “Do you know what? I think I’ve changed my mind. There can’t be much to this acting lark, can there, Timothy? And with Anna as Ophelia, it could be very interesting.”

  ∨ The Opposite Bastard ∧

  4

  Country Matters

  The Actor

  When Simon Butterworth (who I can just about describe as my one remaining friend) finally got married, it was I who inherited his Purrfect Pussy. As the only born-again bachelor in the stag party, it was fitting that he should fling it towards me with all the care and precision of a bride, intent on ensuring that her bouquet should reach some deserving spinster. He bought it, in a semi-ironic way, out of the back pages of Club International (“No real pussy purrs as purrfectly as this one”) when he was going through one of his fallow periods. It’s shaped like an American football, with a hole in one end (obviously) and at the other, a place for the batteries. One could imagine it cropping up in a 70s BBC 2 panel game, where a group of slightly posher than average celebrities would pass it around in an attempt to discover its purpose. “Is it one of those things you use to make yoghurt?” Of course it’s nowhere near as good as the real thing, but it can preserve you from some of the more depersonalizing effects of marriage. Far more discreet than a blow-up doll, it sits demurely on my bedside table, ready and willing at the flick of a switch.

  I’ve known Simon since the sixth form, so, when I first came by his Pussy, I saturated it in detergent and used a condom. As with my corporeal relationships, the safe-sex thing went out of the window after the first couple of dates. I don’t wish to suggest that we’re inseparable, but, right now, if I was the subject of This is Your Life, the Purrfect Pussy would probably be the surprise guest that they flew halfway across the world to be with me on my special day.

  No doubt it would amuse SOWINS to learn that I haven’t completely given up on This is Your Life. When my ex-wife uttered the words ‘till death us do part’, what she really meant was that she’d only stick around if I landed a part in a sitcom. Her final ultimatum, “Get yourself a proper job or I’m out of here,” was all the more heartbreaking for the fact that my agent (Bunny Michelmore at Bunny Michelmore Management) had just called to tell me I hadn’t got the Tango commercial. Doubtless SOWINS would have something equally pithy to say about the Purrfect Pussy. She always did make me feel a bit of a wanker.

  As I roll these deathly thoughts around my mouth and spit them out in fear and disgust, I let the shipping forecast descend over me like a safety blanket. For how many other insomniacs and late-night masturbators is it a poem more soothing than the Lord’s Prayer?

  Michael is still out there, tapping away like a demented Dalek. He says he’s got a work crisis, but I know full well he’s playing one of those tedious computer games that every male under thirty seems to find so fascinating. I ought to be so angry with him, and yet all I feel is pity. It’s not his fault that some lunatic thinks he can play Hamlet. Philip Sidney makes the director who cast Frank Bruno as the genie of the lamp look like a man of artistic integrity.

  So I’ve decided to sit back and enjoy the spectacle. I’ve even agreed to accompany him to the Morley Fletcher Rooms for his first rehearsal. It’s not in my job description, of course, but like the knee-jerk reaction that inevitably accompanies the words ‘includes scenes which some viewers may find disturbing’, I feel drawn to the nascent disaster, like men in anoraks to Clapham Junction.

  And let’s not forget, Michael is one of the few people who make me feel good about my sex life. Although the Purrfect Pussy is by no means Purrfect, the experience is a whole lot better than anything poor old Ironside will ever come across.

  So, having paused to examine my testicles for any ‘lumps, irregularities or changes in shape or firmness’, I remove my favourite moggie from the bedside table. As the National Anthem swells to its glorious climax, I fumble for the switch.

  The Quadriplegic

  —WHERE ARE U?
/>
  —BARBADOS. WHERE ARE U?

  —SITTING ON MY BED

  —HOW ARE U FEELING?

  —RELAXED

  —WHAT ARE U DOING?

  —LOOKING AT YOUR PHOTOGRAPH. ARE U REALLY THIS HANDSOME?

  —NOT FOR ME TO SAY

  —AND MODEST WITH IT

  — WHAT ARE U WEARING?

  —MY LITTLE BLACK DRESS.

  —AND UNDERNEATH?

  —JUST MY KNICKERS. SHALL I TAKE THEM OFF FOR U?

  —DO U WANT TO?

  —YES

  —TAKE THEM OFF THEN

  —THAT’S BETTER

  —HOW DO U FEEL NOW?

  —MEGA RELAXED. WHEN AM I GOING TO SEE U? EVEN AIRLINE PILOTS GET TIME OFF FOR GOOD BEHAVIOUR DON’T THEY?

  —TELL ME ABOUT YOUR BREASTS

  —THEY FEEL HARD

  —WHY DON’T U TOUCH THEM FOR ME?

  —OH MICHAEL. I WISH U WERE HERE.

  —WHAT WOULD U DO IF I WAS WITH U?

  —I’D GO AND LOOK IN THE FRIDGE

  — WHAT’S IN THE FRIDGE?

  — YOGHURT!

  —THAT’LL DO NICELY

  ♦

  Other people’s multiple orgasms give me the mother of all headaches. Voice recognition software is OK when you’ve got time to go back and correct yourself, but the wand is much better when you’re trying to keep up with a girl in real time.

  The Internet is the ultimate arena for the projection of alternative personas. It can also be a mega let-down. How many horny optimists have had their wet dreams shat upon from a great height when they’ve finally come face to face with their repugnant Internet lovers? How many eagerly awaited rendezvous in provincial hotels have come to a premature conclusion the moment the old swamp-donkey (who said she was a model) pops back to her room to fetch her glasses? I wonder what they’d do if Wheelchair boy showed up? Probably stick around for a drink, out of pity.

  I still reckon the Net’s just about the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Of course, I trawl the porn sites from time to time – don’t we all? In fact, if you’re some kind of pervert, you can even find sites with guys and gals like me on them. But what I love about the Internet is that I get to try on a whole new set of heads – and more importantly a whole set of new bodies – without anyone ever suspecting that their favourite cyber-mate is a horribly deformed mutant from the planet Unequal Opportunities. Sitting at my keyboard, even I start believing I’m a ‘real boy’. And not just any boy, either; I can be anyone I want to be: from Goths to gay vicars, my range is spectacular. There are a lot of saddos out there, all gagging to believe that you’re exactly who you say you are. With so many of us about, I’m confident that the webcam will never really catch on.