by Nev Fountain
‘Yeah, he is, isn’t he? Funny that. Why do you think that is?’
Mervyn had a pretty shrewd idea of why he was like that, but he kept playing the gullible old man. He wasn’t going to give this boy any juicy copy for his sci-fi magazine. ‘Coincidence?’ he suggested.
‘Hah! That’s right. Coincidence. I met Glyn Trelawney 15 years ago. Back then he was drinking, chain-smoking, and you couldn’t find a more acerbic and girl-hungry bastard in television. That’s because he was “doing a Dennis Potter”. When I met him five years ago he was making speeches about the Iraq war in Parliament Square and turning the air blue at the Hay-on-Wye festival. Why? Because Dennis Potter wasn’t fashionable any more and he’d decided it was better to be Harold Pinter. Next year he’ll probably put on a wig and be J. K. Rowling.’
Steve placed his roll-up in his mouth and lit up. Amazingly, no one rushed up to him and told him to extinguish it. They truly were in a different country.
‘Here’s the thing,’ said Steve, exhaling a thin line of grey smoke. ‘I’ve met Russell T. Davies, and that’s what he’s like. And there’s a reason why he’s so jolly. He loves telly, and he loves Doctor Who with a passion, and working in telly making Doctor Who was a dream come true for him. How could you not be happy about it? But Glyn is just copying the surface without understanding what’s going on underneath. So you’re getting a kind of…well…’
‘A crappy parody?’
‘Yeah. A crappy parody. He thinks that just copying the mannerisms of successful writers is the way to get on in telly. And do you know what? He’s absolutely right.’
Steve exhaled more smoke. ‘The only trouble is, he’s been doing it for years. And copying them all, well, it seems to have sent him a bit schizo, hasn’t it?’
Mervyn remembered the odd Liverpudlian character that Glyn suddenly became in the meeting. It made sense now. It was disturbing to say the least.
They sat in silence.
‘Well,’ said Mervyn, trying to be positive. ‘At least he’s like Russell T. Davies in one respect. He’s genuinely a fan of the series. That much is obvious.’
Steve guffawed. ‘Glyn’s not a Vixens fan. He barely knows the show.’
Mervyn frowned. ‘I think you’ll find he is. He mentioned episodes I’d done, one I’d written under an alias, the other I’d allowed another writer to take the credit for. It’s only superfans that know that kind of trivial stuff.’
‘He’s no slouch. He gets Nick Dodd to do his research and put together crib sheets. Do you think he actually carries a script in that big red folder of his?’
‘I don’t see the point of doing all that.’
‘So you never lied to get anywhere in television? Trelawney just pretended he was a big fan of the series to get the gig. People want big celebrity fan geniuses to come in and do the business for them. Like Russell T. Davies and Steven Moffat. They think that’s the way it works now.’
Toast. Burnt crumbs.
‘I heard him talking a year ago, on the set of Dog the Wagz. He said, and I quote verbatim, “They are shitting money into those big fucking space shows, and it’s about time they pointed their arses in my direction.”’
Mervyn drank his lager, deep in thought.
Steve continued. ‘Randall rang up six months ago from the States, and asked if he knew anything about an old show called Vixens from the Void because they’re going to film it down in the south-west. Nick spent two solid days on Vixipedia and then Glyn came back to Randall with a hearty laugh, a thick Cornish accent, and told him he watched nothing else as a kid.’
‘Oh. Okay. So his motives aren’t pure. Whose are? But he’s done good work. He’s won awards.’
‘Oh yeah. Chavland and Dog the Wagz and GSOH were all great, but don’t you think they got the awards because they were a bit like what had gone before but slightly different? Wasn’t Chavland just Shameless with Brummie accents? Dog the Wagz was Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels with hot girls. And GSOH was Glyn in his Richard Curtis phase, doing Notting Hill in a dating agency in Cobham.’
Mervyn could see what Steve was talking about, but didn’t like to judge. Success was incredibly difficult to achieve as a writer. ‘So what? So what if they were “a bit like something else”?’ he muttered. ‘So was Vixens from the Void. I nicked from everything I could read, watch or find at the bottom of my dustbin. And that’s not an exaggeration. My “Sentrassi Plague” episode was directly inspired by an ancient yoghurt that had attached itself to the bottom of my kitchen bin and grown a beard.’
‘I’m not judging him, Mr S. I’m just pointing out the facts. Glyn is looking at Vixens as his opportunity to do a Russell T. Davies. After all, he’s already “done” every other writer in television and film. I’m just setting you straight. He’s not some starry-eyed fan whose life mission is to bring Vixens back from the dead. He’s a cynical bastard with a multiple personality disorder who’s going to use you and your creation as a stepping stone to do something else.’
Mervyn raised an eyebrow. ‘But you’re not judging him.’
‘Hey, I’ve been hanging around TV people for years now. I just gave the man the highest compliment I know.’
‘I must say,’ mused Mervyn, ‘I liked Dog the Wagz even though, as you say, it was a bit of a rip-off of Guy Ritchie. I thought the Stepford Wagz were quite professional…’
‘I bet you did,’ said Steve with a dirty wink. Mervyn didn’t like Steve’s tone, or the fact he was dead right.
So Mervyn continued. ‘Yes, they were quite good, surprisingly good, in a girl-group-who-shouldn’t-be-let-anywhere-near-a-film-set kind of way.’
‘I’m glad you liked them.’ Steve now gave a sly grin ‘It’s just as well, considering.’
‘I thought I read they were giving up music to take-up acting full-time.’
Steve grinned wider. ‘Yeah, I heard that too.’
Mervyn grinned back. ‘So, what are they doing now?’
‘Oh they’re doing some more acting. Well, they’ve just got themselves some leading roles in a major new TV project. Might be a disaster.’
‘Oh. Some sepia-tinted Dickens? Or a gritty soap with lots of shouting?’
Steve saw Mervyn’s grin, and raised him a smirk. ‘Not quite.’
‘Oh. Well, good luck to them.’
They sat there, for a while, grinning and sipping their lagers.
‘Seriously though,’ said Steve, ‘what do you think about the Stepford Wagz being the Vixens?’
‘Not likely though, is it?’
‘Very funny.’
‘What?’
‘Seriously, what do you think?’
‘What?’
‘About them being the Vixens?’
‘What? They’re not!’
‘Are you still joking now?’
‘What?’
‘Because they are, obviously.’
‘Are you joking?’
‘No.’
‘Seriously?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘No!’
‘But you were acting like you did!’
‘I was going along with your joke about them being the Vixens!’
‘I thought you were joking about not knowing!’
‘I thought you were joking about knowing.’
Steve looked shocked. ‘The announcement went out two days ago. I can’t believe you haven’t heard.’
‘I’m in the middle of bloody nowhere with no internet and a phone that might as well be a tin can with a bit of string attached for all the use it’s been. That’s why I haven’t heard. You’re serious? The Stepford Wagz are playing the Vixens?’
‘Yes!’
Everyone knew about The Stepford Wagz. They’d reached the semi-finals of Star-Spangled Ballads. The show was actually won by a couple of Nice Young Lads And a Guitar, for whom the grannies voted as fast as their arthritic old fingers could press speed-dial, but after two-and-a half-hits they’d vanished from the charts as there
was ultimately nothing else to them but being Nice Young Lads. The lads were now presenting children’s shows on the Disney Channel. No news on what the guitar was up to.
The Stepford Wagz, on the other hand, had something to them. They were authentic, and a bit on the rough side. They grew up together. They came from Birmingham, Stoke and Nuneaton and made no pretence of disguising their accents. They got into fights over men; they ate kebabs on freezing street corners, their underwear covered slightly more of their bodies than their outerwear. They seemed genetically bred to be a girl band. They were even three identifiable types: the Blonde One, the Dark-haired One and the Ugly One. One wore her bra outside her shirt. One wore a hat. Mervyn remembered a video of theirs. It had young near-naked women fondling each other and gyrating in cages. He couldn’t quite recall the song, but then, he couldn’t quite remember any of the plots of the pornographic movies he’d ever watched.
‘What? This is going to be dreadful.’ Mervyn had given up being cautious.
‘Why? You said they were quite good in the film.’
‘Quite good. They only had about a dozen lines between them.’
‘Look,’ said Steve. ‘At the end of the day, what is Vixens from the Void? It’s a programme all about hot babes. What’s the problem?’
Well what exactly was the problem? Mervyn had to think about that. He had to admit, it was a show about young sexy women who wore impractical clothing and stomped around striking aggressive poses. God, you could edit all the Stepford Wagz videos together and make a new Vixens episode without all the hassle of roughing it in cider country.
What indeed was his problem? Mervyn thought about it.
‘The problem is this,’ he said slowly. ‘In my long experience of TV productions I have discovered that there are lots of actresses about; a lot of them young attractive ones, with beautiful faces, huge breasts, shapely legs and breathtaking bottoms. They are the reason I got into television. And here’s the amazing thing; they not only have fantastic breasts and beautiful faces and breathtaking etc, they can also act. Quite well, most of them. Very well, some of them. These “Wagz” have done one film that was pretty much shot around them while they stood still and didn’t bump into the scenery. It’s a huge risk. They haven’t got a lot of acting experience.’
‘There’s the videos. They act in them.’
‘I know Equity would argue that miming is an art like any other, but moving your lips to a backing track is not what they mean. It’s not acting.’
‘The blonde one used to be a pole dancer.’
‘Well thank you. That puts my mind at rest.’
‘Hey, just because they’re pop stars doesn’t mean they can’t act. Billie Piper was a pop star, and she was great in Doctor Who. Who would have thought she could act?’
‘Oh yes. Billie Piper. The pop star that spent several years acting and getting good reviews for her acting before getting cast in Doctor Who. Who would have thought she could act? That was completely the same thing.’ Mervyn sighed. ‘Toast. Burnt crumbs.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Steve noticed a collection of puffer jackets entering the pub. Somewhere inside them was a bunch of cold, miserable people. He swilled down the last of his lager.
‘That’s the production team of the DVD documentary. Duty calls. Nice to have a drink. And I’m serious about having that interview with you.’
‘And I’m seriously thinking about it.’
‘Cool.’
Steve swung his scarf around his neck, picked up his folder and was gone.
CHAPTER NINE
Mervyn was left with deep thoughts, clouds of foreboding swirling round him. He knew he was starting to care about the revival of Vixens, but he just couldn’t stop himself.
Okay, the Stepford Wagz probably wouldn’t be a disaster. At worst, they’d merely be competent, and a few fans would grumble about ‘stunt casting’. At best, they could be really good. They could really surprise everyone, and be great publicity for the show—just like Billie was for Doctor Who.
They were young. They’d be keen. All they needed was a good, skilled, patient director to coax a really excellent performance out of them…
But instead, they had Ken Roche.
Oh God. Ken Roche.
This wasn’t the first time Mervyn had been in Cornwall for a Vixens shoot. There was the disastrous experience with Ken.
Mervyn had no idea why they had to travel that far down the country just to get footage of some rocks and trees; normally they didn’t venture more than five minutes from Shepherd’s Bush. Mervyn suspected it was only because the producer at the time, Nicholas Everett, had bought a holiday cottage down there and felt he’d been under-using it.
It was a nightmare. Eight days of terrible weather and equipment failure, with Ken standing in the middle of it, slowly going bananas. Mervyn remembered nearly being crushed by a falling arc light on set, and the bad weather and soggy terrain immersed his car in seven shades of brown filth. His trusty old Fiesta Popular wasn’t a happy car in Cornwall; it kept stalling, the windscreen wipers gave up and he crashed it into a tree.
Just when things looked like they couldn’t possibly get any worse, Nicholas fell off a boat on the way to a location shoot at Pendennis Castle and caught pneumonia. While Nicholas was laid up in a virtual coma, Ken used the opportunity to run riot, making petty, bloody-minded decisions, ignoring the pleas of costume, make-up, props and cameramen alike.
Ken refused to listen to Mervyn, who was acting producer, and eventually they came to blows on location, punching and hitting each other and rolling around on the ground getting filthy, with the production team looking on in quiet amusement as they placed bets on the outcome. Mervyn sipped his lager, lost in gloomy thoughts.
He was unaware he was being glared at.
By Ken Roche.
CHAPTER TEN
Ken Roche had had the briefest of meetings with his production staff. He had finally worked out what everyone had realised hours ago; the show was going to be made Glyn and Randall’s way, with or without him, so he’d plunged into the nearest pub.
While Mervyn sipped his lager, Ken stared at him for a very long time. Then he got up. Mervyn realised that Ken was behind him.
‘Hello Ken.’
‘Mervyn.’
Ken stayed there, deliberately standing too close. He peered over Mervyn’s shoulder. On the table was Mervyn’s contract permitting the use of the Styrax. Still yet to be signed.
‘Oh I see. That’s why you’re here. Still eking out a living from your royalties? That must feel so degrading. That must feel like you’re fucking a slowly cooling corpse.’
‘At least I still have a career.’
‘Not from where I’m standing.’
‘Yes you are standing Ken, on your own. I can verify that for you. How does it feel? You haven’t done it in such a long time.’
Ken actually looked down to check he was standing. Former drug addicts were so much fun, thought Mervyn. So bewildered that they were still alive. So easy to confuse.
‘Fuck you, Has-Been,’ Ken said.
‘I hear you’re sending out your old showreel tapes to every TV station in the world. A word of advice, Ken. Lay off the druggy substances when you post them off. Heads of television drama are not interested in your wedding videos.’ Mervyn had actually been in a BBC office talking to a producer when one of Ken’s showreel tapes arrived. The producer slipped it into the machine and was mystified to find three old episodes of Top Gear followed by one of the Die Hards, leading into pages from CEEFAX—clearly the video had been left running at two in the morning.
‘I don’t get this,’ said the producer, jabbing his remote control. ‘You worked with Ken. Surely he didn’t direct Top Gear?’
‘No.’
‘Then surely not…?’
‘Die Hard? Not quite.’
‘Should I ring him and tell him? This tape doesn’t really tell me what he’s done in
the last few years.’
‘I beg to differ. The tape tells you exactly what he’s done in the last few years.’
The producer realised what Mervyn meant.
‘Oh. That’s tragic, when directors like Ken end up as addicts.’
‘Not really,’ said Mervyn dismissively. ‘At least it keeps him away from cameras and editing suites where he can do real damage.’ That was cruel by Mervyn’s standards, but he had no time left for the man.
Since then, Mervyn had heard stories of producers getting tapes of old westerns, snooker tournaments, wedding footage, even an “Xmas tape”—the first Christmas since Ken’s divorce—which showed the director, naked save for a pair of flashing reindeer antlers, guzzling Cointreau from a bottle and pulling a raw turkey to pieces with his bare hands. He’d accidentally sent that one to BBC3, who nearly hired him as an up-and-coming genius, until they found out he was over 35.
*
‘I’ve been clean for two years, you patronising fuck,’ Ken hissed through his teeth. It was the loudest whisper in the world. The roar of conversation in the pub dropped to a dull grumble. Mervyn could see Steve and the DVD production team craning their heads over the bar to see what was happening.
Ken didn’t notice—he just focused on Mervyn. ‘I’m back in the driving seat of this project, so you’d better be nice to me.’
‘Really? From where I’m sitting, you’re going to be completely bypassed at every stage. Your only job is to sit in your chair and shout “Action!” Well, not even that. I gather the assistant director shouts “Action!” these days.’
‘Just you wait. Just you wait and see. I’ll prove who’s the boss.’
Mervyn knew he really shouldn’t have started this. He’d gone too far, but he couldn’t stop. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I remember you proving you were the boss the last time we filmed down here. When you set fire to the spaceship and implemented a scorched-earth policy on the Cornish countryside that Czar Alexander the First would have been proud of.’
‘You’ll never know how much I hated you on that shoot,’ Ken said in his too-loud whisper. ‘Maybe one day, you’ll find out.’