by David Nobbs
What? But it’s called Get Stuffed. Oh, Naomi, how could you do this to me? We don’t stuff. We model. Don’t those morons know anything? How could you take the part? Traitor.
Boyfriend
‘Funnily enough I know a bit about taxidermy myself. I once had a boyfriend who was a taxidermist. I hope he won’t be too upset if liberties are taken with the facts.’
‘If?’ They’ve been taken, they’ve sodding well been taken, and I only know the title. Oh, Naomi. Well, of course, you can’t change the title. You hate it, but you can do nothing. I mustn’t be unreasonable, mustn’t blame you. Go on. Say something nice about me. He was a lovely lad. I often wonder about him. What a fool I was not to marry him.
The BBC tell us that the new series is about two rival taxidermists who don’t get on and try to do each other down in increasingly hilarious ways. Naomi plays the daughter of one of the taxidermists.
Nothing more about me at all. ‘I once had a boyfriend who was a taxidermist.’ How flat is that? And two rival taxidermists, is that contrived or what? Oh, Naomi, Naomi.
Naomi hopes that the series will run and run and run, but she also hopes that she might get more dramatic roles in the future.
‘Sitcoms are great, but I don’t want to get typecast as a sitcom actress,’ she explains.
Spoilt
I asked her if there was anyone in her life at the moment. She smiled – a little wistfully, I thought – and said, ‘Not at the moment, no. I’ll be very careful second time around. I wouldn’t want a romantic entanglement unless it was absolutely right.’
Oh, Naomi. How wonderful. Oh, how right. Oh, my darling, where are you, how can I find you?
‘I wonder if I could have a second cup of coffee?’ she enquired politely. A well-mannered, level-headed girl, our Naomi. Not spoilt in the slightest. Coningsfield can be proud of her.
Thoughts whirr through Timothy’s head like rampaging locusts. He drinks his second pint very quickly, and has a third.
‘Thirsty today,’ comments the barman, who has acne and boils on the back of his neck, probably, Timothy suspects, from too much wanking.
Thirsty? You spotty cretin. Not thirsty. Happy beyond belief.
‘Absolutely. Very thirsty.’
He walks home in a trance, calls out to his father, ‘Supper’ll be just a few moments, Dad,’ climbs the stairs to the upstairs lavatory, which has no lock – but his father is hardly likely to follow him upstairs and wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing even if he did – and there, in the dark, watched only by an owl – but this one can’t see even in the dark because it has been dead for twelve years – he takes off all his clothes, and all Naomi’s clothes, and there, in that sagging bed, in that tiny lavatory, he loves her as she has never been loved before. After which, he has cottage pie with his Dad.
Oh, the attempts that he makes to get in contact with Naomi, and the fear he has of rejection. The letters that he writes to the Coningsfield Evening Argus and doesn’t send. The times he drives down Lower Cragley Road and doesn’t dare to stop and call at L’Ancresse. The times he drives up Lower Cragley Road and doesn’t dare to stop and call at L’Ancressse. Many years have passed since he last saw her, and Naomi will be different. The newspaper said that she wasn’t spoilt, but newspapers have stories to tell. He hasn’t the courage to face another rejection.
And then the great thought comes to him. He can apply to the BBC and get a ticket for the show. He sends a personalised letter to the BBC’s ticket department. No mention of Naomi, of course. They might take him for an obsessive. ‘I am a taxidermist so I am particularly interested in the subject and would love to laugh at the many follies of my profession.’ He doesn’t know whether it makes a difference, but he gets a ticket. And now here he is, in Wood Lane.
It’s a cold evening in West London, with flecks of rain on a north-westerly wind. The wind is creeping round the corner of the BBC Television Centre. Processions of cars, white vans, taxis, buses and lorries grind with agonising slowness in both directions along grimy, unlovely Wood Lane. It is not a scene, or an evening, to excite or warm a person. Yet Timothy is in a fever of anticipation, and a fire burns inside him. He takes his new leather coat off, for fear that he’ll start sweating, and will be unpleasant to women before the night is out.
Well, not to women generally. Just to Naomi.
More people join the queue. He doesn’t much like the look of them. Anoraks, he thinks. Nerds, he suspects. Not good enough for Naomi.
He’s almost certain that he’ll hang around at the end and ask to see her. In his dream he is not a brave man, but if he turns out not to be brave enough to do this he’ll despise himself for ever. After all, there’s no harm in it. This is the whole point. He is in no danger of rejection, because all he needs to say, at the beginning, is that he wanted to see the show, because of his interest in taxidermy.
At last they all file into the building, and through corridors, and into the studio. Stewards point them to their seats in an orderly manner. He’s in luck. He’s nowhere near the front. He doesn’t want Naomi to see him, not till afterwards.
It’s very exciting to sit in these seats, look up into the vast gantry above and see a bewildering array of technical equipment. It’s even more exciting to look down on a floor crowded with five large cameras, with cables trailing everywhere, and beyond the cameras some scenery – he believes the technical term is ‘sets’, he’s read that somewhere. One of the sets looks ever so slightly like his workshop, but not much, and a sudden fear grips him. What he sees is going to be a travesty of taxidermy.
A warm-up man comes on and starts telling jokes and getting them to shake hands with the person on their left. The person on his left has a handshake like a sweaty mullet. Timothy’s tension grows. He has waited three thousand, three hundred and twelve hours for this moment. And there have not been many waking moments during those one hundred and ninety-eight thousand, seven hundred and twenty minutes – he has worked out the figures during the train journey – in which he hasn’t thought of this evening that is now galloping so speedily and yet so slowly towards triumph or disaster, and he realises that he is much less able to face the twin prospects calmly than Kipling had been.
The cast are introduced one by one. The two taxidermists first. Matthew Cotherbridge, far too patrician to be a taxidermist, a luvvie if ever there was one, seriously miscast, thinks Timothy with a sinking heart. Then Francis Old, too weedy, a man of darkness, a man who looks like a dead mole, typecasting. Timothy’s heart sinks further. And then their respective and respectable wives. And only then the son of one taxidermist and the daughter of the other, together.
There she is. In the flesh. So cruelly lovely. There isn’t room in his body for his swelling heart.
He is amazed that this golden girl has only a shared entrance, half a round of applause. He is outraged, saddened, discouraged, made hopeful that she is not too much of a star, humiliated by proxy for the same reason.
And he knows. Knows before it starts what her role in the series is. It’s Romeo and Juliet with animals. Capulets and Montagues with stuffing jokes.
The actors take their places for the first scene. The tension suddenly rises, Timothy can feel the audience going stiff with it. Matthew Cotherbridge knows what to do, the old luvvie. He makes a deliberate mistake, and says, ‘Oh, shit.’ Everybody laughs.
‘I’ve only said one line and I’ve cocked it up,’ he tells the audience, and they love him for it. ‘Back to the beginning,’ he sighs, and he walks backwards very fast, rewinding himself, and the audience roars, and the tension is lifted, and the show begins.
Timothy cannot watch much of what follows. He sits with his eyes closed, thinking as he does so of the world his father now inhabits all the time.
The show is an insult to taxidermy. No research has been done. Taxidermists are figures of fun. He feels very insulted, all the more so because much of it is really quite funny, and both Matthew Cotherbridge and Francis Ol
d are very expert. Matthew plays cod Scottish, Francis cod Welsh. They don’t look like taxidermists, they don’t act like taxidermists, but there’s every chance that they’ll be very popular. When the posher of the two wives, the Penelope Keith figure, only it isn’t Penelope Keith unfortunately, says to the Welsh taxidermist, ‘Gareth, please understand this. I do not want to be touched by a man whose fingers have spent half the afternoon up the backside of a singularly unprepossessing puma,’ the audience laughs, and Timothy cringes and wants to cry out, ‘Taxidermy is not like that.’
He finds it even harder to watch when Naomi comes on. The Romeo and Juliet bit isn’t very funny, and the man playing the Romeo figure is very handsome, and Timothy simply can’t bear to watch him kissing Naomi, which he does every time they’re alone together. Naomi hasn’t been given any funny lines. She’s a receptacle for kisses. It’s very nearly unbearable, but he does bear it.
At last it’s over. Matthew Cotherbridge tells the audience, ‘You were marvellous. You were the true stars of the evening. Bless you. Can you come next week? And remember, if you liked the show, my name is Matthew Cotherbridge. If you didn’t, it’s Terry Wogan.’
The audience file out, smiling, happy, thinking it was good value, especially as they haven’t had to pay. Timothy follows, heart racing, legs feeling terribly weak. They are approaching the exit door. He has to make a move soon. He can’t just go.
He turns to the right and walks calmly, not too fast, not in any way suspiciously, along the dark passage at the back of the seats, then waits politely while the members of the audience stream out at the other side of the studio. One or two other people are also hanging around.
When almost all the audience have left, he walks, along with the other hangers-on, towards the door from which he had seen the actors enter and exit.
A young woman emerges.
‘Excuse me,’ he asks, his voice betraying his nervousness. ‘I used to know Naomi Walls very well. Very well. Could you be very kind and tell her Timothy Pickering…no, say, her taxidermist friend is here…awfully sorry to be a nuisance.’
‘You’re a taxidermist?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really a taxidermist?’
‘Yes’
‘Fucking hell. Did you enjoy it?’
‘It was amazing.’
The girl is happy and takes Timothy’s words as praise. Her mood is ecstatic.
‘Sorry to be a nuisance,’ he repeats.
‘Not a problem,’ she says.
Timothy waits for what seems like twenty minutes, but is probably more like two. His heart is beating like the wings of an anxious hummingbird.
The girl reappears.
‘She’s coming,’ she says.
Timothy so wants to ask her what Naomi’s reaction was. But he doesn’t, of course.
He waits for what seems like another twenty minutes, his heart thudding, his blood surging, his legs shaking. Then at last Naomi appears. He gasps with desire. He knows that the camera loves some actresses and they are a real disappointment in the flesh. Naomi is different. For some sad reason the silly camera doesn’t like her very much, but in the flesh and up close she is as lovely as she was as Juliet.
She’s smiling broadly. She is clearly delighted to see him, but is it any more than that?
‘Timothy!’ she says. ‘How lovely.’
She kisses him on both cheeks, affectionately but formally. He longs to throw his arms round her, hug her to him, feel her soft flesh, search for her lips. He doesn’t dare. He isn’t sure. Fear assails him like drops of rain from a clear sky.
‘No, this is fantastic,’ she says. ‘Is Maggie with you?’
He doesn’t like this question. He wishes that she had instinctively known that Maggie and he had separated.
‘Um…no.’
‘You must come on up to the club and have a drink with us.’
Well, that’s good. A fiasco can be ruled out.
Francis Old emerges from the bowels of the studio and joins them like a mole tunnelling into daylight. Naomi introduces them.
‘A taxidermist! A real-life taxidermist! Oh, my God,’ says Francis Old. ‘How did we do, taxidermy-wise?’
‘Well, you know, I suppose it wasn’t all that accurate, but it is a comedy, after all,’ says Timothy.
A tall dark girl joins them and is introduced as Melanie Cass-Wardrobe. Timothy is just about to say, ‘That’s an unusual name,’ realises just in time and says, ‘I thought the clothes were very good.’ Before he’s even finished the sentence he realises that he should have called them costumes, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s wearing black jeans and she has legs that go on for ever. She beams and says, ‘Thank you!’ as if surprised.
They walk to a lift, where there is quite a long wait. Timothy feels strange, almost disembodied. Words come from a long way away as if he is under water, yet certain words come at him sharply, and he finds himself analysing the minutiae of Naomi’s responses to him. Pretty encouraging, on the whole. The words ‘lovely’ and ‘fantastic’ were used, although he suspects that in this environment, in the post-recording euphoria, if he’d said, ‘You’ve got dog shit on your shoe,’ she would have said, ‘Dog shit! How lovely! That’s fantastic!’ Still, she did kiss him, and on both cheeks. But it was a bit formal. Anyway, he’s been invited for a drink. That’s definitely encouraging. Yet for some reason that he can’t put his finger on, he is not overly encouraged.
In the lift he becomes aware that he has a huge erection. He studies a notice that gives details of the opening times of the various restaurants and cafeterias, and it slowly subsides.
Naomi smiles at him and shakes her head.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she says.
All that trouble to make the erection subside, and it’s back again.
They drift along a circular corridor, and turn into the entrance to the club. She signs him in, and while she does this the other two move on, and they have a brief moment when they’re alone.
‘So, did you enjoy it – really enjoy it?’ she asks.
He decides to be honest, and to test the waters a bit.
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘I hated seeing you being kissed by that bloke all the time.’
Halfway through this sentence, he wishes to abort it. He didn’t want to show his true feelings yet. Naomi’s eyes narrow slightly. She has recognised his admission of desire.
Her expression is not encouraging, but her words are.
‘Not as much as I hate being kissed by him,’ she says. ‘He’s got a horrible furry tongue and he goes further than he needs to. He’s awful.’
Timothy’s heart leaps like a twenty-two-pound salmon that has no idea that it will end up in a glass case. They stroll up to the bar in the huge club, which has two levels and vast long windows. It’s dimly lit and not very full and there isn’t much atmosphere, but he feels a delicious warm glow. His lips feel dry. He moistens them just a little with his gloriously unfurry tongue.
He offers Naomi a drink, but she says she’s buying, but then Furry Tongue marches in and insists on buying for them both.
Matthew Cotherbridge discovers that Timothy’s a taxidermist and he also says, ‘Oh, my God.’ ‘We’ve been touched by real life,’ he adds. ‘How appalling.’
Timothy hears himself say, ‘No, but I enjoyed it. It was funny.’
A rather short, chunky man joins the gaggle of self-congratulation at the bar, and is introduced as Colin by Francis Old.
‘And this,’ says Francis, ‘is Timothy, and he’s a taxidermist.’
Colin whistles and says, ‘It’s funny. You don’t think of there actually being such people.’
This remark doesn’t please Timothy, and Colin notices.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘That must have sounded tactless.’
An intense pain passes through Timothy’s overexcited balls. He wants to sit down.
‘Are you all right?’ asks Colin.
‘Yes. Fine. Terrific.’
‘Well, Mr Taxidermist, what did you think of the show? Really?’
Timothy is not going to rave to this man, or care about his feelings.
‘I suppose it was OK,’ he says. ‘I think the script was a bit weak.’
Naomi comes over and joins them.
‘Ah!’ she says. ‘So you’ve met our writer.’
Timothy closes his eyes in horror.
‘Colin and I are going to be married.’
Timothy opens his eyes in horror. The blood in his veins turns to ice. His heart slips past his genitals. His prick shrivels. The pain in his balls gives a last, nostalgic spasm. His life is over. He smiles. How he smiles.
He recognises that Naomi made this horrendous announcement rather rapidly, getting it in before he could say anything he, or indeed any of them, might regret. And she said it very gently, so she is aware, to some extent at least, of how he feels towards her.
‘Congratulations,’ he says.
‘Thank you!’ says Naomi.
He is sorry that he has given her a clue to the intensity of his feelings.
‘I hope you’ll be very happy,’ he lies.
‘Thank you,’ repeats Naomi.
But if he had given her no clue, her innocence of his feelings would have been a dagger plunged into his soul.
He kisses her on both cheeks.
He shouldn’t have come. It’s been yet another mistake, in a life of mistakes.
‘Ah! Of course,’ says Colin. ‘I know who you are. The penny’s dropped. You’re Romeo.’
Timothy wonders what Colin means by ‘of course’. He is shattered to learn that Naomi has talked to this man, this lazy writer, too lazy to find out anything about taxidermy, too lazy to grow beyond…oh…five foot seven; she has chatted to this short, thick, complacent tree trunk about him as Romeo, probably told him about their three nights in Earls Court, especially the second one. Possibly laughed at his lack of talent, well, maybe not, but for Colin to know anything about Naomi with Timothy is almost more than he can bear. But he has to bear it. He’s still there.