Truths, Half Truths and Little White Lies

by Nick Frost

What was I going to do? I’d never acted before. I say never – I did have a tiny part on BBC2’s Big Train. Dressed as a builder I had to fall in love with a horny puppet bird as it bounced past me. That was it. It was short and sweet but I think Simon arranged it with Graham Linehan to give me a taste of what shooting was like. I got to meet the lovely Julia Davis and also a man who’s become a very close friend over the last fifteen years or so, the very lovely Mr Kevin Eldon. Gosh he makes me laugh. He’s the nicest Buddhist I’ve ever met. And that’s saying something. Our children are betrothed to be wed someday.

  It was only after I’d gone to my first costume fitting with a Scottish firecracker called Annie Hardinge that I began to realise this thing may actually happen. Annie and I have worked together a lot since then. She’s a fantastic costume designer and a wonderful woman. Always well turned out with long curls of rich auburn hair. She’s the kind of woman an American airman would’ve painted on the side of a B52.

  Simon, Edgar, Jess and Nira Park – enduring friend, godmother to my son and perhaps the world’s greatest producer – went into Channel 4 to have a meeting with someone high up. During the meeting my name was brought up, the exec wanted to know who I was, what I’d done and whether or not I was in Spotlight. (Spotlight for those of you who don’t know is essentially lots of very big books with pictures and brief resumés of thousands and thousands of actors.) Simon and Jess lied and said I was in Spotlight. Fortunately for me there was another Nick Frost and we said he was me. The exec seemed happy and let it slide.

  So this was me. A man with a complicated history, a past littered with overindulgence and family alcoholism, on the verge of making a TV show. The issue I have, and I think it’s kind of a biggie, is I have no idea how to do the actings. Even though people had been calling me from the production office I still didn’t think it would happen. I didn’t want it to happen. I wanted things to stay as they were. I didn’t really, I knew this was the change I needed, but I could’ve done without this ball of anxiety bouncing around inside of me.

  Living with Simon I had the chance to get the scripts in advance and start to try and learn them. The thought of not knowing my lines and fucking up in front of people I didn’t know made me want to die. I’m not too bad now, I just got better at learning lines, and after twelve years I’m pretty good. I still have that terrible fear of fucking up, but it’s not all-consuming any more. Day to day I put a lot of time and effort into making sure this doesn’t happen.

  Sometimes though it just does go wrong. Actors are not computers, if a script has no melody or flow then it’s tough to learn no matter how many hours you put in. Also, it’s not live, it’s not the end of the world. Audiences don’t need to know how it’s made, the process; what’s important is the finished product.

  Back then I was terrified. The Big Waiter on campus would soon be taken out of his comfortable restaurant, the place I knew and loved, the place that fed and housed me and supplied me with money for chemical vacations and an endless stream of horny waitresses to flirt with. Soon I would be thrown from the comfort of the above into the uncomfortable world of British Television. I didn’t deserve it and I didn’t want it. I did, however, need it.

  About four weeks out from the beginning of production I was told to appear at so and so a place in town for my first ever read-through. Whatever the fuck that was. I had no agent although Simon’s lovely rep Dawn Sedgwick (bloody good egg) agreed to take care of my paperwork. More importantly, I had no acting experience. Save for those 5 seconds on Big Train.

  A read-through is something that’s done around a big table with every cast member present. It’s usually to help the writers get a feel for what’s working and what’s not. After the read-through the scripts are tweaked a little, sometimes more work’s necessary. Then shooting scripts are released and you’re ready to go.

  I was so shy and nervous. I don’t think I talked to anyone much. I knew Mark Heap and Katy Carmichael a little bit through parties and gatherings over the last few years but I didn’t know them very well. We’d read through the script once all together on our own in a big room and then after that we’d grab a sandwich and then be joined by the big cheeses and heads of department, and other honoured invitees who’d all sit and listen to the scripts being read aloud.

  These things never start on time. Actors, not all actors but some actors, are always a little bit – or in some cases a lot – late, often rushing in, cappuccino in hand, sometimes wearing a pompous hat or silken pashmina, items of clothing that alert potential street robbers to the fact that these people are actors and as such have no way to defend themselves whatsoever. It was ever thus.

  I find read-throughs a lot of fun now. Unless the thing you’re reading is shit. Also if none of the decision makers laugh you can leave the room feeling like it’s your fault. It’s soul crushing to see a Commissioner sending or reading an email mid read-through.

  I’ve also seen the opposite happen, people laugh so much that it’s difficult to ascertain whether or not the thing is actually good. Actors love the sound of Commissioners laughter. It often means the louder the laughing gets the bigger the performance. It’s an ugly thing to watch but completely understandable. Who among us doesn’t like the taste of fresh laughter?

  If you have the world’s most amazing read-through it’s often tough for the actual film or TV show to live up to the expectation of that read-through. I always think it’s like spending a hundred grand on a dream wedding. Once the dust settles it’s going to be tricky for the actual marriage to live up to the expectation of that massive knees-up.

  We sat around the table and read the scripts. I don’t think we read the whole series. I think we read three episodes or so. I was afraid but kept my head down and tried to interpret what Simon and Jess had written in terms of comedy beats etc. As Mike was my invention, written for me by two fantastic writers, directed by a hairy boy genius, I would’ve had to have been a complete fuckhead to not get laughs. I was funny, what I wasn’t was an actor. Not yet, that comes much later. Right now I was a lucky waiter pretending to be an actor.

  The first read-through with just us went great. It was relaxed, it was fun, and watching people, great people – great actors like Mark Heap and the sexy, beautiful Julia Deakin – work, and seeing what their process looked like, was exhilarating and fascinating to me.

  I think throughout my whole life I’ve done a lot of this. Watching, seeing how things worked, seeing the shape of the food chain, who does what etc. I’ve asked a lot of questions too. As I never trained as an actor every department was equally interesting to me and I think that’s really held me in good stead over the last twelve or so years. Especially as long term my aim is to direct and produce more. (Fingers crossed.)

  After some light refreshment Nira, our fearsome producer, entered the reading room. She’s not so fearsome now, not to me anyway and not after all these years, but back then I’m not sure she thought I deserved this shot or if I could even pull it off. I don’t think she talked to me properly for two years. Many was the time in a pub after a few I’d turn to Simon and ask if he thought Nira liked me.

  Nira’s arrival means one thing, Big Wigs are en route. Assistants came in and set up chairs in a formation that was definitely gladiatorial. The chairs were shoved up close behind us. People filtered in, heads of department, well-wishers, agents, channel bods and other VIPs responsible for the show. Please note the most important person at a read-through will always be late. Always.

  My heart begins to pound. I sit, frightened, quietly sipping on a water. This was the most alien thing I’d ever done. I think I remember catching Simon watching me, he looked nervous, we nod, he came and gave me some final words of advice. A light squeeze. It was all a blur. I must have looked like a frightened WWI tommy about to go over the top. Looking at it now I think this was the beginning of it all really, my career, this career that chose me. If I’d fucked up and the channel insisted they recast Mike that would’ve been that. I
’ve no idea what I’d be doing today. Maybe I’d be an area manager for a chain of Mexican restaurants? Maybe I’d have a company car and play golf?

  Nira stood and said some words, which is the one thing she hates doing more than anything. There’s a little light applause, a laugh or two, and she threw it open to us. At the beginning of a read-through: words are said by the director and/or producer and then you go round the room saying who you are and what you do. I watched the introductions roll round the venue until it was three away, then two, one, now me! The blood pumps like fuck in my ears and I make these words fall out of my dry, baggy mouth:

  ‘Hello. I’m Nick Frost and I’m playing Mike Watt.’ That was that. Introductions over, everyone clapped and we were off.

  The next worst bit was waiting for my first line to come round. Reading down the script and seeing it approach was awful, here it comes . . . here it comes . . . say the line . . . say it . . . NOW! And out it came. It got a laugh. Oh. Nice. They laughed, people laughed! That felt pretty good. The read-through finishes and people clap. Nice. Simon was giving me that look I liked. Pride, mutha-fucka, pride.

  After the read-through there’s always a little debrief, tea, pats on the back. I think after that, at least I hoped, Edgar and Nira might begin to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could do this.

  Part Four

  My social life and things outside of starting to make a TV show were still the same. Being naughty, powerful potions, and falling in love with fit girls who liked laughing but, long term, didn’t see any future with me. The sex was cool, but I always wanted the love. I wanted them to fall in love with me. I wanted to properly love someone.

  On top of that I still had my self-imposed exile from Mum and therefore Dad, which was a shame. Mum was a shame too, don’t get me wrong, but seeing my dad look after this woman who was slowly dying was tough to take. It made me cross, therefore it wasn’t too hard for me to exile the both of them.

  It sounds hard I know. I’m not sure how it happened, me getting so hard, but it did. The more people died the harder I got. It was gradual, like the calloused skin on a builder’s hands, the more trauma, the harder they become.

  I’ve really had to watch this over the years, but therapy helped a bit. Everything’s relative. People have a harder life than me. People have an easier life than me. After lots of mine had eventually departed, I’d find it difficult to hear someone bellyaching about the small shit. I had to work that out, that’s my problem though, not theirs. It’s big for them. All relative.

  There were conversations with my folks semi-regularly on the phone, though yet again as soon as I heard that slur I wanted to hang up. I became impervious to Mum telling me how proud she was. It didn’t mean anything and at the same time it meant everything.

  By day I’d rehearse and by night I’d wait tables. It was an odd existence. Rehearsals were strange, reading stuff out, not knowing what was going on, what things meant. Learning my lines was the thing I feared most. I was also afraid of letting people down, and by people I mean Simon. If he thought I couldn’t pull this off he never let on, which was either really clever or really nice. Maybe both, he’s good like that.

  The best thing about rehearsal was getting to hang out. Just sitting about, chatting, laughing like drains felt so good. I never felt I belonged, not at that point, but I felt welcomed. I had a lot of work to do to belong. I was meeting more and more new people and the prospect of having to leave ChickenPastaMcFuckheads or whatever it was called filled me with absolute joy. Once I left waitering to be an actor that was going to be it, fame and fortune awaited me.

  My affair with Callie was getting complicated. I’d made the terrible drunken mistake of sleeping with another waitress, one who was actually pretty lovely. I mean as a person as well as being fit, which was a novelty for me. She was in a Spice Girls tribute act. I really liked her. What a shallow greedy dickhead I was. Maybe I got everything I deserved. I think I frightened the Spice Girl off a bit by being drunken and unpredictable one Christmas Eve. We worked in the day then got pissed once the restaurant had closed at 6 p.m.

  We found ourselves frenching in the bogs. Then frenching on a night bus while a man dressed as a nun watched, then frenching on Simon’s bed, frenching in Simon’s bed etc. etc. etc. You get the picture.

  I was in a bleak Russian novelist kind of mood. In between pumps and bouts of sobbing I’d swig from a large bottle of red wine. After we finished I threw the bottle across the room, it smashed. She seemed afraid and confused. I thought women loved that moody shit, that ennui.

  The next day was Christmas Day, this was the best Eve I’d ever spent, all crying and sexing up a Spice Girl. I wanted it to go on. Tomorrow I’d be alone, Simon and Smiley were away, I couldn’t be at home so I asked Spice Girl to stay. She didn’t. I think the crying and bottle smashing mid-doggy was the death knell for that short-lived thing. I think I also might have told her I loved her too. Which got back to Callie. Shit gets complicated. Still, I have my work. My new work, as a TV actor. Ha Ha.

  My friend Andrew Maxwell (the one that brought the Eiffel Tower of Absinthe to my stag do) calls me the world’s luckiest waiter. Which I guess is right. Was right. Since the beginning, though I’ve always worked my cock AND balls off to make sure I didn’t have to wait tables again.

  I feel I ought to finish the Callie thread as when it actually finishes we won’t be here. The book will be over by the time we get to that bit. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the chance to write another one so I should end this now. I’d hate to think you’d never get to find out what happened.

  After months of falling and chasing, hoping this could be the time a fit, shallow girl finally falls for a tubby jokesmith, we were approaching the end. It wasn’t all bad which I guess made it worse. There were times when we did things that made me believe we could work. Once in the afternoon we went to see the film Happiness. She didn’t get it and seemed offended watching Phil Hoffman jerking off. We left and sat in a café eating bacon rolls. It was so nice. We laughed a lot.

  Please though don’t imagine it was all her. Fuck no. I was far from perfect. My issues were many and complicated. Issues no pretty young girl from Leeds could or should ever have to cope with. This I understand.

  There’s one thing that happened that told me without a shadow of a doubt that I had to turn away and not look back for the sake of my own sanity and dignity, no matter how sweet this patootie was. I had to man up and bite the bullet.

  One night we’re lying in bed. In my new bed in the house in Highgate I’m to share with the boys. She utters to me words that have stayed with me for ever.

  ‘I really like you but I wish you looked more like David Beckham.’

  Wow. That hit me for six. It was the bucket of cold water in the face my dignity needed. All my instincts, finally singing off the same hymn sheet, hollered in unison.

  ‘Get the fuck out of there,’ they chorused. ‘For your own sake, get the fuck out.’

  I could barely speak, I looked at her perfect body for the last time. My balls wept, dropped to their knees, implored me to keep going, they told me things would change, she just needed more time. I’d heard enough, I slapped my dick round it’s face. I was sick of listening to that fat liar.

  I try to exit with a grand gesture, an overly verbose postscript she’ll think about in fifteen years’ time when she’s wiping her tenth baby’s arse and cursing the TV or cinema screen every time she sees my happy yet vulnerable face.

  I need to say something which means I couldn’t come back even if I wanted to. I think this technique was my psyche’s plan of escape if all else failed.

  In the end, as I struggle to pull my jeans up over my now striking balls (striking as in on strike, not visually stunning, although it has been noted before that I have very attractive Willy Balls. I digress), I manage to utter a shaky ‘fuck you’. That’s all I have, all I can muster. I leave at a pace, slamming doors, and stand on the street looking for a cab to take me
away from all this heartache, when I remember that this is my house. She walks past me in the hall as I trudge back through the front door. And that’s that. Well almost. I’ve never been one to just turn off emotions the way a fishmonger might simply turn off a running tap. For me shit lingers, which means small arguments tend to hang around. Shadows bang and holler upstairs as I try and work things through; things other folk would quickly forget tend to stick around a little with me. I need to learn to let things go, move on. Stop analysing every tiny detail. That shit be destructive yo. I, like you, am a work in progress. And I hope I’m never finished.

  ***

  I have one more brush with Callie, in fact that’s not quite true, there’s two. A few weeks later I go and see her in a play. It’s bad. She’s okay but the play’s not good. I think I’m drunk and sad she’s shut me off so I leave at half time. I go back to the house in Highgate with Simon. We’re watching REM live from Glastonbury. I’m drunk, I may have started into my first bottle of Night Nurse.

  Me and Callie start texting, it’s hard and cold. We’re at that point where everything that went before, the niceness, the hair-brushing, Phil Hoffman jerking off, softness, laughter, they’ve all gone. They’re replaced by a sharpness and a tightness of mouth. Silent tension reigns here now. I’m not sure how the end comes but it comes and I end up in tears.

  I’m sitting on the sofa. Simon’s watching me. ‘Everybody Hurts’ comes on. I cry solidly for an hour, my heart well and truly broken again. Simon fulfils the tricky job of cuddling me and telling me things I needed to hear right then. What a guy.

  The second brush came years later, I’m in my house in Twickenham when a girl who looks exactly like Callie walks by pushing a pram. I don’t move. Weeks later it happens again. I leap up and track her down the road. Nice arse. Days later I’m taking my bins out and she comes out of a house four doors down pushing a cute baby in a buggy. She’s moved four doors down! From a completely different part of the city, Callie has moved into a house four fucking doors down. I’m amazed by this cosmic pull.