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whathoRob Brydon/Steve Coogan. About 1,200 words. It's sort of RPS. I never know with those two. Um ... plot - Steve Coogan wins Rob Brydon for being voted GQ's Actor of the Year 2008 and, as it customary, has his name tattooed on Brydon's lower back. Well?
Disclaimer: This never happened.
(Paul Merton: But it did.)
Man of the Year
‘Does that say Pierce Brosnan?’
‘Pierce Brosnan. 2002.’
A hand on his ribs rolls him critically into the light.
‘Treat you well?’
‘He was going to take me to India.’
‘Where the Dalai Lama lives?’
‘He’s got a picture on the wall there. Pierce. Not at the actual residence. In a little greasy spoon in the village. Him and Richard Gere. Not together.’
Steve runs the pad of his middle finger along the tiny letters. He bumps over the notches either side of the second lumbar vertebra till Rob minutely twitches. ‘So why didn’t he?’
‘Bit showy on balance,’ says Rob, very muffled through the leather. ‘Taking your trophies on holiday to a spiritual haven.’
‘Another year on the shelf.’ Steve scratches at the dot on the i; digs his nail in like he’s rooting out a blackhead.
‘Ouch,’ says Rob.
‘Well. I can hardly read this,’ says Steve, airy, scornful a bit, waving a hand in the air across the tally. ‘Bloody scrawl. What’s the typeface?’
‘The award bods pick the font. Something out of the mag.’
‘I think it’s comic sans.’
Rob’s shoulders sort of undulate. Steve looks him up and down from calves to open back to bald spot to his fingers white and curled around the headrest.
‘Can you breathe through that couch?’
‘Not really,’ says Rob.
‘Oh.’
Rob stretches as best he can. ‘You’d think they could provide a hole.’
‘Like a massage bench.’
‘Bit high class, you reckon?’
‘I’m the star,’ says Steve. ‘You’re just the trophy.’
Next door, the tap goes off. Steve sniffs, props an elbow on the nearest shoulder blade and looks around the room. All bad light and tapestries and clacking bead curtains and a powerful stench of antiseptic. He rests his eyes a minute on the very thin patch at the back of Rob’s head.
‘You could turn your face. If you’re wanting a breathe.’
‘There’s needles either side of me.’
‘And oxygen,’ says Steve.
‘My neck’s frozen.’
‘Bad luck.’
‘Turn it for me, Steve.’
‘I’ll not, thanks,’ says Steve, and he strolls down the table to pore over the previous winners again; trailing all his fingers half an inch above the canvas; tweaks the hem of Rob’s untucked shirt that lightly covers last year’s victory.
‘Not too high,’ says Rob.
‘No fear. I’m just seeing who I trounced.’
‘2007? James McAvoy.’
‘James McAvoy,’ says Steve in synch, once out loud and again beneath his breath.
‘We didn’t get on to be honest. He keeps his trophies in the downstairs loo. I can’t be doing with humility.’
‘I have a special room,’ says Steve, pushing the shirt past Rob’s kidneys so he can see the space that waits for him. ‘There’s a humidifier. Sensitive lighting.’
‘I feel a chill coming on,’ says Rob.
Steve frames the place between his thumbs and fingers. ‘My name’s going there,’ he says.
‘Please dress me.’
‘Piss off. He can’t ink you through your shirt.’ A pause. A frown. ‘Is this my shirt?’
‘Probably. Timing though. It’s like taking the tyre covers off a formula one car. It’s very much a science.’
Steve’s eyes run down again Rob’s lower spine again, right back towards the waistband. He squints and frowns; tilts his head and leans in close. His hand loosely curls round the far edge of the couch; his wrist at the point of Rob’s hip. His forearm hiding the bulk of the names from the light.
‘Orlando Bloom?
Rob feels the puff of warm air at the plosive. Some muscle that was shivering rests and slackens. ‘That’s right,’ he says, quite thickly.
‘Is it … what? A joke? Tonight, ladies and gentleman, I’d like to do the one about the pirate and the….’
‘You’re letting too much air through your mouth. He’s way more nasal than that.’
‘You don’t know who I’m doing.’
‘Ronnie Corbett.’
‘Did you answer my question?’
‘2003.’
‘Serious?’
‘He never showed.’
Steve raises his eyebrows and hooks his finger into Rob’s belt. He pulls the lamp a little closer. ‘Do you stop in their cabinet if that happens? GQ HQ? Or did Pierce get you again for the duration?’
‘Do you mind?’
‘What? I can’t read 2001.’
‘That’s properly breezy.’
‘Who had you in 2001?’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Well … no,’ says Steve, limboing back to peer into the shadows below Pierce Brosnan. ‘I don’t suppose … it is. How low does this go?’
The artist bustles in from the side-room, shaking his hands dry, letting the beads tick behind him. Steve straightens and nods.
‘What is it?’ says Rob.
‘The engraver.’
The guy smiles politely.
‘All right, Mr Brydon? We happy with the location?’ The artist traces the little blank space where Steve’s name belongs. Rob nods. Steve’s hand drifts uninvited from his pocket.
‘Good,’ says the artist. He has too many elbows. ‘Look up a minute.’
Steve ducks around, shoved suddenly out of the light.
'He's not my usual,' says Rob.
'I'm a safe pair of hands,' says the artist.
‘Do you know what they call it?’ says Steve, way louder than he needs. ‘When you have a tattoo on your lower back?’
‘I do know,’ says Rob. Steve bounces on his toes and counts a good few seconds. The artist moves away - Steve breathes a bit better - and opens the needles at the head-end of the couch, but Rob's face has fallen and he doesn’t look again till he feels his shoulder caught and lightly shaken.
‘You’re meant to watch this.’
Rob strains to watch the needles taken out. Steve comes to twenty in his head.
‘Tramp stamp.’
They both turn to look at him. Steve shrugs.
‘I know,’ says Rob. ‘I did say that. I know.’
‘And a list of names ….’
‘It has to be my back. It’s my pedestal, that is. My plinth.’
The artist pulls on his left non-latex glove. Steve puts out his lower lip and taps a heel on the tiles. He whistles.
‘Can I do his antiseptic?’
‘No,’ says the artist.
'Okay,' says Steve.
The artist swabs - Steve looks away - and bows to Rob’s ear. ‘You ready then?’
‘Don’t nod,’ says Steve. ‘You’ll take the varnish off our nose.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘You know how to spell it,’ says Steve, and it isn’t a question.
‘Yeah,’ says the artist. ‘You can write it down though, if you’re bothered.’
‘You need me to write it down?’
‘Can we maybe get on?’ says Rob. The artist nods and hunches over the couch.
‘What’s the size?’
The guy pulls up and blinks at Steve, all his needles dancing in the air an inch above Rob’s goosey skin. ‘Sorry?’ he says.
‘The font size,’ says Steve with a shrug. ‘Nine point? Ten?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
He shrugs. ‘Ten? I think?’
‘Too small. Do mine in a fourteen.’
‘It’s my back,’ says Rob. ‘And frankly, you know, I do favour fewer pinpricks.’
‘Size ten though. My mum’ll never be able to read that in an artificial light. She likes to peruse my trophies.’
‘Stop staking out my vertebrae. There’ll not be room for 2009.’
‘There’ll not need to be. We can put a ditto mark or something. Is that blood?’
Rob expects it is. He holds a breath and chafes at the edge of the couch with his thumb. The needles gently buzz. The artist covers 2007 and all the other years with his rubbery palm. Steve folds his arms and drops his lids half over his eyes.
‘Goes right through you, doesn’t it?’
‘Hold my hand,’ says Rob.
‘No,’ says Steve. ‘And it’s my back,’ he says, moving the wet wipes a stretch out of the artist’s reach.
***
Disclaimer: This never happened.
(Paul Merton: But it did.)
Man of the Year
‘Does that say Pierce Brosnan?’
‘Pierce Brosnan. 2002.’
A hand on his ribs rolls him critically into the light.
‘Treat you well?’
‘He was going to take me to India.’
‘Where the Dalai Lama lives?’
‘He’s got a picture on the wall there. Pierce. Not at the actual residence. In a little greasy spoon in the village. Him and Richard Gere. Not together.’
Steve runs the pad of his middle finger along the tiny letters. He bumps over the notches either side of the second lumbar vertebra till Rob minutely twitches. ‘So why didn’t he?’
‘Bit showy on balance,’ says Rob, very muffled through the leather. ‘Taking your trophies on holiday to a spiritual haven.’
‘Another year on the shelf.’ Steve scratches at the dot on the i; digs his nail in like he’s rooting out a blackhead.
‘Ouch,’ says Rob.
‘Well. I can hardly read this,’ says Steve, airy, scornful a bit, waving a hand in the air across the tally. ‘Bloody scrawl. What’s the typeface?’
‘The award bods pick the font. Something out of the mag.’
‘I think it’s comic sans.’
Rob’s shoulders sort of undulate. Steve looks him up and down from calves to open back to bald spot to his fingers white and curled around the headrest.
‘Can you breathe through that couch?’
‘Not really,’ says Rob.
‘Oh.’
Rob stretches as best he can. ‘You’d think they could provide a hole.’
‘Like a massage bench.’
‘Bit high class, you reckon?’
‘I’m the star,’ says Steve. ‘You’re just the trophy.’
Next door, the tap goes off. Steve sniffs, props an elbow on the nearest shoulder blade and looks around the room. All bad light and tapestries and clacking bead curtains and a powerful stench of antiseptic. He rests his eyes a minute on the very thin patch at the back of Rob’s head.
‘You could turn your face. If you’re wanting a breathe.’
‘There’s needles either side of me.’
‘And oxygen,’ says Steve.
‘My neck’s frozen.’
‘Bad luck.’
‘Turn it for me, Steve.’
‘I’ll not, thanks,’ says Steve, and he strolls down the table to pore over the previous winners again; trailing all his fingers half an inch above the canvas; tweaks the hem of Rob’s untucked shirt that lightly covers last year’s victory.
‘Not too high,’ says Rob.
‘No fear. I’m just seeing who I trounced.’
‘2007? James McAvoy.’
‘James McAvoy,’ says Steve in synch, once out loud and again beneath his breath.
‘We didn’t get on to be honest. He keeps his trophies in the downstairs loo. I can’t be doing with humility.’
‘I have a special room,’ says Steve, pushing the shirt past Rob’s kidneys so he can see the space that waits for him. ‘There’s a humidifier. Sensitive lighting.’
‘I feel a chill coming on,’ says Rob.
Steve frames the place between his thumbs and fingers. ‘My name’s going there,’ he says.
‘Please dress me.’
‘Piss off. He can’t ink you through your shirt.’ A pause. A frown. ‘Is this my shirt?’
‘Probably. Timing though. It’s like taking the tyre covers off a formula one car. It’s very much a science.’
Steve’s eyes run down again Rob’s lower spine again, right back towards the waistband. He squints and frowns; tilts his head and leans in close. His hand loosely curls round the far edge of the couch; his wrist at the point of Rob’s hip. His forearm hiding the bulk of the names from the light.
‘Orlando Bloom?
Rob feels the puff of warm air at the plosive. Some muscle that was shivering rests and slackens. ‘That’s right,’ he says, quite thickly.
‘Is it … what? A joke? Tonight, ladies and gentleman, I’d like to do the one about the pirate and the….’
‘You’re letting too much air through your mouth. He’s way more nasal than that.’
‘You don’t know who I’m doing.’
‘Ronnie Corbett.’
‘Did you answer my question?’
‘2003.’
‘Serious?’
‘He never showed.’
Steve raises his eyebrows and hooks his finger into Rob’s belt. He pulls the lamp a little closer. ‘Do you stop in their cabinet if that happens? GQ HQ? Or did Pierce get you again for the duration?’
‘Do you mind?’
‘What? I can’t read 2001.’
‘That’s properly breezy.’
‘Who had you in 2001?’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Well … no,’ says Steve, limboing back to peer into the shadows below Pierce Brosnan. ‘I don’t suppose … it is. How low does this go?’
The artist bustles in from the side-room, shaking his hands dry, letting the beads tick behind him. Steve straightens and nods.
‘What is it?’ says Rob.
‘The engraver.’
The guy smiles politely.
‘All right, Mr Brydon? We happy with the location?’ The artist traces the little blank space where Steve’s name belongs. Rob nods. Steve’s hand drifts uninvited from his pocket.
‘Good,’ says the artist. He has too many elbows. ‘Look up a minute.’
Steve ducks around, shoved suddenly out of the light.
'He's not my usual,' says Rob.
'I'm a safe pair of hands,' says the artist.
‘Do you know what they call it?’ says Steve, way louder than he needs. ‘When you have a tattoo on your lower back?’
‘I do know,’ says Rob. Steve bounces on his toes and counts a good few seconds. The artist moves away - Steve breathes a bit better - and opens the needles at the head-end of the couch, but Rob's face has fallen and he doesn’t look again till he feels his shoulder caught and lightly shaken.
‘You’re meant to watch this.’
Rob strains to watch the needles taken out. Steve comes to twenty in his head.
‘Tramp stamp.’
They both turn to look at him. Steve shrugs.
‘I know,’ says Rob. ‘I did say that. I know.’
‘And a list of names ….’
‘It has to be my back. It’s my pedestal, that is. My plinth.’
The artist pulls on his left non-latex glove. Steve puts out his lower lip and taps a heel on the tiles. He whistles.
‘Can I do his antiseptic?’
‘No,’ says the artist.
'Okay,' says Steve.
The artist swabs - Steve looks away - and bows to Rob’s ear. ‘You ready then?’
‘Don’t nod,’ says Steve. ‘You’ll take the varnish off our nose.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘You know how to spell it,’ says Steve, and it isn’t a question.
‘Yeah,’ says the artist. ‘You can write it down though, if you’re bothered.’
‘You need me to write it down?’
‘Can we maybe get on?’ says Rob. The artist nods and hunches over the couch.
‘What’s the size?’
The guy pulls up and blinks at Steve, all his needles dancing in the air an inch above Rob’s goosey skin. ‘Sorry?’ he says.
‘The font size,’ says Steve with a shrug. ‘Nine point? Ten?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
He shrugs. ‘Ten? I think?’
‘Too small. Do mine in a fourteen.’
‘It’s my back,’ says Rob. ‘And frankly, you know, I do favour fewer pinpricks.’
‘Size ten though. My mum’ll never be able to read that in an artificial light. She likes to peruse my trophies.’
‘Stop staking out my vertebrae. There’ll not be room for 2009.’
‘There’ll not need to be. We can put a ditto mark or something. Is that blood?’
Rob expects it is. He holds a breath and chafes at the edge of the couch with his thumb. The needles gently buzz. The artist covers 2007 and all the other years with his rubbery palm. Steve folds his arms and drops his lids half over his eyes.
‘Goes right through you, doesn’t it?’
‘Hold my hand,’ says Rob.
‘No,’ says Steve. ‘And it’s my back,’ he says, moving the wet wipes a stretch out of the artist’s reach.
***
