by Nick Frost
I don’t run inside as my instinct tells me to. I stop and smile as she walks up. She smiles a bit too. Only a bit. It’s awkward. I’m famous by this point so it must be hard for her. The man that never wanted it, never cared, standing there in house shorts holding bags full of stinky filth. Things are utterly different this time, there’s no sense of a flicker, no match being held up to a short piece of fuse, no histrionics, no light flirt for old times’ sake, nothing. We exchange a few words. I go in, she goes off. That’s that. It’s the last time I see her.
Days later a sign outside her house says ‘FOR RENT’. Now I feel bad. Had I really been that bad? Does she really hate me so much? I have to believe this is not all about me. Months later I bump into a mutual friend. My suspicions are confirmed. It wasn’t about me. It never is. Well, hardly ever.
***
All this was yet to come. Right now I’m leaving the restaurant and starting my career as a TV actor. Easy. The rehearsal process ends. The numerous meetings with hair and make-up and costume mean my character’s look was now set in stone. Mike Watt TA would wear combat gear and polarised shooting glasses, the legacy of a childhood injury. He’d wear big combat boots and have a very short haircut. Perfect.
The scripts have kind of been learnt, I had no idea how to do it other than by saying the lines over and over again. I’ve got better over time and don’t now feel the need to learn the whole thing in one like a play. That’s what I tried to do at first. It expends so much energy. Now I learn a week at a time with a general ‘loose’ knowledge of the thing as a whole, it’s so much easier.
I begin to receive paperwork, a shooting schedule comes through, money has been agreed upon, hands have been shaken, contracts signed and countersigned. A moment of clarity flashed into my pumpkin, a bean of truth that makes me heave. This shit was about to happen. Spaced was actually going to happen. The great Channel 4 swindle had been a success and I now have to walk the walk. Balls.
The night before the first day on set I spend puking my ring up. All night, no sleep, just being sick, such is the level of my nerves. As an aside, this feeling stays with me for years. There’s hardly a job I do where I don’t spend the night before being sick with nerves. I hate it. Now though, like line learning, it’s better, I know the feeling and I’ve come to like it. Over the years, with knowledge and the odd technique and a lot more faith in myself that I’ve earned my place here at the table, the feeling has gone away.
On Monday morning, very early, the doorbell rings to Coogan’s place and it’s our driver. We get a bloody driver! Me and Simon get into the car. We drive and arrive at the studio in silence. The only time I now feel like this is before red carpets for one of my films. Not all of them, a Paul or a World’s End or a Cuban Fury. You get the gist. The drive from the hotel to the cinema is one that I dread. I do the film for free, you pay me for the red carpets. It’s not fun and it’s not glamorous. That’s the real work for me. The car pulls up through crowds of people craning to look at you, slightly disappointed you’re not someone a little more famous. The car stops, a lovely grey-haired man called Paul opens the door. I breathe and BOOM . . . It’s on. Nerves go, game face on. Let’s smile and sign stuff and pose for selfies!
If Edgar had been unsure whether or not I could do it, meeting me that morning probably made him feel a lot worse. I was a fucking wreck. Seriously. I try and keep it subdued by not opening my mouth but sometimes there’s so much of it, whatever it is, it kind of bursts out. Panic.
My eyes feel sweaty. I immediately meet loads of new people. Everyone’s job title seems to be contracted down into letters, ADs HODs, DOPs. The studio was busy. Studios are always busy the first day of a shoot.
I barely touch my full English breakfast except for the sausages, eggs, fried-slices, bacons and mushrooms. I barely manage to wash it down with two strong coffees. I sit in my dressing room, dressed far too early in combat fatigues waiting for my execution to begin. Time passes quickly. I don’t want it to. I want it to stop. I want to be back at Chiquito, flirting, laughing, not having a TV licence.
There’s a knock at my door. A girl sticks her head in.
‘Ready on set to line up, Nick.’
‘Thanks.’
What the fuck does that mean? I stand and look. I’m in fatigues, I have a beret on. I’ve grown a big ginger moustache. What had I become? A charlatan moments from being found out.
A line-up is usually the first thing you do on any given shoot day. You get on the set and you walk the scene through. I didn’t know that then. My credo at this point was say nothing and listen, don’t fuck up. The first thing I ever shot on Spaced was the party scene where I supply security. I stand behind the door and appear shaking my side-arm happily.
All the guys are there. Lovely, weird, funny Mark Heap, lovely Katy, bloody lovely Julia Deakin, lovely Jess, smashing Edgar ‘8-ball’ Wright and my darling home boy Simon ‘Simon’ Pegg. I relaxed slightly. It was only us. We talked a bit about how shit would go down and then we do a crew rehearsal. It’s no longer just us. The crew streams in. My cold fear pops my top bulb and I panic. Simon stays me. We do the rehearsal and my little comedy pop-out makes the crew laugh. I think I suggest I’m found with the barrel in my mouth, as if Mike had been thinking about what it would feel like to end it all there and then.
It was a thing I did at home to make Simon and Smiley laugh, Edgar loved it too. It was essentially a charade I did for the guys where I’d load and discharge lots of different kinds of guns, shotguns, assault rifles, pistols and machine guns. Essentially a spree killer. (Grim.) It always ends with me doing a weird smile and offing myself. The guys would laugh at the dark dénouement. Sometimes imaginary gunfights would break out as locals fought to contain me. A lot of my darker comedy ends with me killing myself. Help . . .
The tension builds and for a moment I wish this gun was real. What must Simon have been thinking? This was his gamble. If I scream and run off, never coming back and they have to go on hiatus for two weeks while they recast my role at considerable fiscal cost to the production, which means a knock-on effect where no one gets wrap gifts, it would be his fault. It would also I imagine put a ding into our friendship. Or would it?
Back then I bailed on shit. I started things, I got all the gear and then I stopped. I couldn’t be bothered. A couple of years before all this began – my new career – I decided I wanted to do an A-Level at night college. So I did. I was pretty skint at the time so a guy I knew, another Simon, who was my GM at the Mexican place, gave me the money for the course and off I went. Twice a week I’d take the tube to Old Street and attend a course to get me an English A-Level. I’d done so shit at school in terms of grades I felt like I needed an actual qualification. This is the first inkling in me that I couldn’t be a waiter for ever.
I didn’t know then, obviously, how things would turn out. I enjoyed the course and stayed for quite a while but as the exam drew nearer I got nervous and I stopped going. Classic me. I did the A-Level but never took the exam. That was me all over. Until Spaced.
The first AD says the words I will hear many times over the years to come but this first time dread punches me in the spleen.
‘Final looks please, shooting this time.’
A burst of activity as every cast member is checked over and preened, brushes on faces, collars turned down. A lady puts what feels like Rizlas on my face and leaves them there for a while.
‘What are these? They feel like Rizlas.’
‘They are Rizlas. We use them to soak up the sweat.’
‘Oh. Am I sweating that much?’
‘Yeah.’ She bustles off leaving three Rizlas glued onto my drippy five-head.
The AD then shouts something else.
‘And turnover.’ The floor is cleared. My Rizlas are ripped off. I’m powdered briefly. Other voices from other departments pipe up.
‘Sound is at speed.’
‘Rolling.’
‘Mark it!’
Someone
rushes in with a clapper board, hooray, finally, something I recognise! I love having a laugh with the clapper peeps, generally they don’t answer you back or talk at the point of the clap. This is their big moment. That doesn’t mean you can’t talk to them though. Simon does it too, you give them a brief pep talk and then rate the board. Sometimes you do it really quietly.
SNAP – ‘what a lovely board’. Or ‘what a terrible board’. It makes the camera teams laugh, one of the main actors gently ragging on a young clapper loader.
There’s none of that today though. My blood pumps into my hearts and for a moment I feel really weak.
‘And . . . Action.’
From my vantage point, hidden behind the door, I can hear the scene unfolding but sadly any memory of my cue line is long dead. Oh fuckballs. When do I come out? Did we ascertain that? I’ll just stay here. Maybe they won’t notice. That’s what I’ll do, just stay here. A minute or so passes and I hear a line I feel I remember. It’s the beginning of the cue, of my cue! This is it. Do it. Do actings now!
I pop out and wave my little gun. Say my line. I blush inside, then outside, and I retract back behind the door and wait for the scene to be done.
‘And . . . cut!’ Edgar sounds chipper. People emerge from their hiding places off the set and tweaks begin. Little lighting issues are dealt with, costume bits, make-up brushes are deployed. Edgar hops around giving notes if notes need to be given. He comes to me, excited.
‘That was great! Let’s do another one.’
‘Okay!’ So we do another one. And another.
You can always tell what Edgar thinks of a take by the way he says ‘cut’. If it’s bright and chipper then he likes it. If it’s slightly elongated and unsure you know he has reservations about something.
We finished the first set-up. A wide. It’s usually always a wide, or ‘Master’, then the camera pushes in for tighter coverage. It works great this way, it’s economical usually, and sets the continuity for the rest of the scene. I felt good, in fact I felt great. I’d done it. I hadn’t burst into flames causing a terrible fire, I hadn’t turned to dust or melted. I did it. We crowded around the monitors to watch the take back. It was good. People laughed as I popped out. All I needed to do was know my lines and be funny. That was it.
***
As time passes Simon and I find our little routine. We like having a little routine. We’d shoot all day and then get dropped off at the pub at the end of our street. We’d have a couple of beers, debrief a bit, laugh at things that made us laugh during the day, then we’d look at tomorrow’s work. I liked the rigidity of that. It gave me purpose. Something to focus on. I liked that.
I keep this kind of routine now when I shoot. It takes a lot of work and a partner who knows and accepts that this is the most important thing in your life for the next four months or so, longer in some cases. It takes its toll – sadly, when your partner sees you give your best on a set and then not much in your home life, it takes its toll.
For a big film all I do, literally, is work. I’ll get up and do ninety minutes’ line learning, then I’ll shoot all day, come home, bit of food, then bed. I’ll lie in bed reading the next day’s work. I want to know everything. Everyone’s role. Everyone’s lines. I then read the call sheet from front to back. Every word. Who’s working? What scenes are we doing? How many extras? What time is lunch called for? What props are needed? What’s the weather going to be like? Everything. I want and need to know it all. If there’s a unit list on the back, read it. Learn everyone’s name. Bill Nighy taught me how important this is. It’s really important. Why shouldn’t an actor know everyone’s name? It’s just good manners. I started this method twelve years ago and I still do it today. I served and continue to serve an apprenticeship in this business that I hope will last for my whole lifetime. I hope it never ends.
Spaced continued. I got my head down and concentrated. I loved it. I loved the crew most of all I think. The crews thrill me and continue to thrill me. Day in day out they bust their humps making film and television. I only have to come in to do the shooting bit. Eight weeks, twelve weeks, a bit more, a lot more actually if I’m writing or producing something. Then I’m done. Crews maybe get to take the weekend off and then they start all over again. Actors, even successful actors, rarely go from job to job to job without a nice big sunny holiday in between. These brave boys and girls do it week in week out. The 5 a.m. calls. The weeks of nightshoots, being away from home and family in shit hotels that cast would never dream of staying in, and all because they have decided to follow a career in film and television. I’ve literally never seen any crew member fuck up on anything I’ve ever done then or since. They’re amazing people.
With a fantastic crew, great cast and lovely script, the atmosphere on set was smashing. I fed off it. I grew, I got bigger, more confident. People couldn’t believe I’d never done it before. What helped me was my friendship and chemistry with Simon. Apparently you couldn’t then and can’t now ‘buy that shit’. People loved us together on screen. I loved us together anywhere.
***
The weeks bled into one another. My focus intensified. I saw bits of Callie but not much. My issues seemed to ebb away for a while, I still smoked the ’erb and drank a bit but I was happy working. I didn’t need anything else.
Coming back to Steve’s place was an absolute treat every night. It was a lovely open-plan, factory-style mews house and was done up beautifully. On the top of the house was a little roof garden. It was here Simon and I perfected a thing we loved called the ‘bloodclart assassination’. It was simple but made us laugh. We’d fill a big champagne bottle with water. (Don’t judge.) Then load a fake 9mm with a small steel ball bearing and conceal the weapon behind our backs. The game was then to pretend to be a fearsome Yardie gangster: you’d casually stroll up to the champagne bottle, say something in Jamaican-style patois, and then you’d pull the nine out and drill a ball bearing into the bottle.
‘BLOODCLART!!!’ we’d shout.
God, we laughed. The first time we did it we were amazed that the steel sphere penetrated the bottle leaving a perfect hole behind. No cracking, just a perfect hole. Little things please little minds I guess.
People often ask if me and Simon ever fight. The answer is very rarely. Of course we’ve had tiffs and barneys, we’ve been together for twenty-two years, it’d be strange if we hadn’t.
Real big fights though are pretty rare. I can honestly only remember one face to face. There was another on the phone once during my honeymoon and one or two spats, I guess you’d call them, but that’s about it. It hasn’t been all sweetness and light though. I remember a time when we were living together in Kentish Town when we really didn’t like one another. Seriously. It was serious. I think if we’d actually been boyfriend and girlfriend we’d be thinking about going on a break or moving out altogether. What was that all about?
I didn’t think about this at all back then. Not when it was happening; I’ve thought about it since and I suppose the thing I put it down to was jealousy, plain and simple. What a terrible thing. I’m ashamed to say I wanted what he had. Hanging around with all these new people, seeing how happy he was, how success was starting to tickle his lovely plums, how popular he was, I thought it was as easy as that. I forgot how much work he’d put into it. Forgot how much he’d suffered for it. What he’d sacrificed. He earned everything that came his way. Shame on me. I worked my hole off too but for what? To what ends? Where was I heading? What was my fucking future? I was funny, people liked me, so why wasn’t I earning big dollar? What a horrible chip to have. For days and then weeks and then months everything he said to me, everything he did, annoyed me. I know the same was true for Simon.
The money thing was an issue for me. I was pretty skint half the time and I didn’t want him to have to lend me money so I could go out with him and his lovely, cool new friends. Even though I was desperate to go. I think that meant I spent a lot of time indoors being a weed hermit.
/> My delight at potions and smokeables I suspect played their part in our blip, our unmeshing. Things came to a head, we knew we had to sort things out but neither wanted to take the first step. This is how things never get better, when people refuse to take the first step, refuse to apologise. God, it was so close to being so very different.
We went out clubbing one night, me, Simon, Tony, Dion, the gang, South African shitheads and scumbags. Lovely. I went hard, got hammered, pissed, you know the deal. The club finished and, for whatever reason, missed rides and taxis meant me and Simon found ourselves together outside. We started to walk. It was a long way. I think we walked from Covent Garden all the way back to our place in Kentish Town.
It was silent and, as the sun rose, the day revealed itself to be grey and weatherless. We walked in silence. I love the early mornings in big cities. A place where a few hours from now millions of people will emerge from pots of steel and holes in the ground to earn a living and try to justify their place in the food chain. We were in that third shift. Just us, ravers, aliens and big-bummed African cleaners chatting and laughing on their phones. These are the people of the third shift.
As we walked something lovely happened, our hearts waved white flags and we started to talk. During that stroll we cried and shouted, laughed and held hands and by the time we pushed our heavy front door open we were back!
We were friends again after that. All the tension was gone and we moved forward, thick as thieves. We’ve continued to evolve with each new incarnation of our friendship, whether it be girlfriends, moving out, marriage or kids, we evolve and we work.
We did have one other row, I’d say it was Jeremy Kyle-like in its intensity. Drink played a part. And weakness, mine. I’d decided to stop smoking fags. I found it really hard. Simon was keen that I give up. I fancied giving it a go and I stopped. I’m not sure how long for. I want to say days but realistically it was more like hours.