Nerd Do Well (17 page)

‘He stole that recipe off the Internet!’ seethed Canterbury. ‘And those balls were undercooked.’

‘Canterbury –’ Pegg tried to calm the indignant robochef down, even though he knew in his heart he had royally fucked up.

‘I had to go to south London for those prunes. Do you know how difficult that is? It’s all spread out and confusing.’ Canterbury’s agitation seemed to be getting out of hand and Pegg couldn’t afford a rogue robot at his side, if they were soon to leave the riad and penetrate the market in search of the Scarlet Panther.

‘Reset code delta one zero,’ Pegg said casually. Canterbury snapped to attention, his eyes became fixed and glowed a deep red colour, like a Cylon from
Battlestar Galactica
but not going from side to side and making a noise like Knight Rider.

‘Please state reset perameters and confirm.’ Canterbury’s voice was monotone and businesslike, reminiscent of Pegg’s fourth wife Sienna, who worked in a call centre although she talked like that normally too. Pegg looked at his watch. He squinted and went over their recent conversation in his head.

‘One minute should do it. Confirmation alpha seven.’

There was silence but for the barely audible clicking of Canterbury’s processors crunching the override procedures. Pegg checked his emails on his iPhone 4 as he waited but found nothing but a spam email from a Scottish souvenir website. He cursed himself internally for buying those cashmere socks for his mother’s birthday.

‘It was a one-off, damn it! I don’t want a fucking newsletter!’

‘What would you like to do first, sir?’ chirruped a suddenly animated Canterbury, making Pegg jump.

Pegg took a deep breath. ‘I’d love a tagine,’ he said breezily, massaging his chest and trying to emulate his earlier tone.

‘Sir?’ enquired Canterbury.

‘A tagine,’ replied Pegg helpfully, ‘like the one you made at the Great Robotic North African Cook-Off at the
NEC
in 2005. It was so delicious. I shouldn’t tell you this but I voted for you, you know.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ stumbled the flattered droid. ‘I’m extremely grateful for your support. To be honest, I thought perhaps you had voted for the horast balls made by the BJ5000 after I saw you emerging from the utility cupboard together.’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ replied Pegg, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. ‘Your tagine was by far the best dish. For me to vote for those tasteless, undercooked doughy balls would have required some serious buttering-up.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Canterbury seemed happy and did not press the subject, much to Pegg’s relief. ‘I only question your judgement, sir, because we have more pressing matters at hand. We must locate the Scarlet Panda as soon as possible, and discover the whereabouts of the Star of Nefertiti, or face the destruction of the Earth on a scale that would give Roland Emmerich a fatty.’

‘You’re right, I . . . Wait a minute.’ Pegg suddenly tensed, looking at his robotic friend through partially closed eyes. ‘What did you just say?’

Canterbury made a rewind noise.

‘Give Roland Emmerich a fatty,’ replied Canterbury.

‘Before that,’ pressed Pegg.

Another high-pitched squiggle signified Canterbury’s reviewing of his vocal tapes.

‘Discover the whereabouts of the Star of Nefertiti?’ offered Canterbury.

‘Before that.’ Pegg wound his hand in the air, a note of impatience in his voice.

Canterbury wound back further, before pressing his internal play mechanism.

‘We must locate the Scarlet Panda,’ Canterbury repeated.

‘Scarlet Panda? Don’t you mean Scarlet Panther?’ Pegg’s confusion was evident.

‘That’s what I said, wasn’t it?’ insisted Canterbury with insistent insistence.

‘No,’ corrected Pegg with measured confidence, his muscles tensing one by one as his body became aware of its surroundings. The earthenware plate on the wall to his left would make an excellent improvised Frisbee-style weapon, as would the ornate Berber sword mounted on the wall which wouldn’t require as much impro, being as it was already technically a weapon. Pegg also had two Israeli-made Desert Eagles under his djellaba, so he was fairly prepared.

‘The Scarlet P-P-Panda,’ stammered Canterbury. Something was definitely wrong. Canterbury shook slightly; a trickle of white liquid issued from the side of his audio slot. ‘I seem to have acquired a virus, sir, it’s affecting my cognitive centres. It’s . . . it’s wiping my memory.’

‘When was the last time you interfaced with a potentially infectious node?’ enquired Pegg, knowledgeably.

‘I can’t remember!’ panicked the ailing bot. ‘Wait, the vending machine at the bus station. Someone must have . . .’

‘Oh God, Canterbury,’ whispered Pegg, his voice riddled with concern. ‘What about all those recipes?’

‘I backed them up on one of those little stick things . . .’ said Canterbury, trying to be helpful, despite the ongoing destruction of his memory centres. ‘You know? A . . . a . . .’

‘Flash-drive?’ shouted Pegg.

‘That’s it,’ returned Canterbury.

Pegg gave the air a victory punch, delighted that he’d got the right answer.

‘The memory loss is a side effect though, sir,’ said Canterbury ominously. ‘The virus was not intended to destroy my info-storage platters, it has done something far worse.’

‘What?’ said Pegg, the smile falling from his classically good-looking face.

‘It knocked out my early-warning sensors.’

Pegg’s body filled with the hot sensation of readiness, which usually precedes a proper tear-up, and had to admit internally that he was shitting himself.

‘The Scarlet Panther, sir,’ said Canterbury.

‘There you go.’ Pegg’s body relaxed into a slump of relief. ‘See? Your memory’s coming back. Now quickly, get your sensors back online. For a minute I thought we were in trouble.’

‘We are,’ said Canterbury flatly. ‘My memory centres have been all but wiped clean. The only things still working are my primary recognition functions.’

‘But if the only things working are your primary recognition functions,’ said Pegg, catching on, ‘then that must mean you are actually looking at the Scarlet Panther and if you are actually looking at the Red Panther she must be . . .’

‘Behind you.’ A voice like velvet covered in chocolate slid through the warm air, spinning Pegg round to face his old enemy/love interest. ‘’Ello, Simone.’ Pegg felt her voice in his underwear, even as it issued from her full, red, round lips. ‘Don’t worry about Canterbury, eet’s not permanent.’

Pegg and the Scarlet Panther stared at each other, a smile playing across both their mouths, their bodies tensed with anticipation. Things were about to get extremely physical and they both knew it. The question was, would it be violence or would it be sex? Pegg hoped it would be both.

‘Why is my watch a minute fast?’ asked Canterbury.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Pegg as he lunged towards his quarry.

A Fine (B)romance

I was never allowed to watch
The Sweeney
due to excessive violence, swearing and use of Dennis Waterman, so I can’t really tell you much about it. (
Starsky & Hutch
, however, was a firm favourite of mine, to the extent that the first poster I ever bought and Blu-tacked to my bedroom wall was a huge diptych of the actors, Paul Michael Glaser and David Soul. It was probably the last obsession I had before that giant star destroyer rumbled over my head and made everything else seem trite.)

There was something beguiling and different about
Starsky & Hutch
that sucked me in and hooked me completely. It wasn’t an elusive ingredient or a special
je ne sais quoi
; it wasn’t the set-up or the storylines; it was entirely the chemistry between Glaser and Soul and the close friendship between their two alter egos. There was an affection and sweetness in their interaction that went beyond what students might interpret as a gay subtext. Sure, cultural commentators who thought themselves awfully clever might glibly proclaim that Ken and Dave clearly harboured a latent desire to get inside one another’s tight jeans/chunky cardigans, but in truth, this reading of the relationship between Starsky and Hutch is way too simplistic.

Whether it was the intention of the writers or a product of that immense chemistry between the two lead actors,
Starksy & Hutch
was a captivating study of true love and affection between two straight men. Culturally, it probably marked the point at which the action hero first attempted an evolutionary step away from his Dirty Harry forebears and morphed into a more emotionally three-dimensional archetype, less constricted by the rigours of machismo and permitted to rehearse a little vulnerability and even – dare I say it – femininity.

The opening titles are a brilliantly concise mission statement for the show, depicting a dizzying montage of action moments, persistently undermined by subtle comic touches and hints of an almost husband-and-wife closeness between the lead pair. It opens on the famous ‘striped Tomato’, a scarlet Ford Torino with a white flash on its wing, careening through the litter-strewn streets of LA. We then see our heroes grab a perp each and roughly bend them over the hood of a car (you can see why a media student might get so excited). Then, as if to dispel any thoughts of rough bum sex, we find them in a strip joint as Ken Hutchinson is hypnotised by a gorgeous exotic dancer, who is pumping her hips at him seductively.

The seemingly nonplussed Starsky blows into his partner’s ear to get his attention, demonstrating emphatically that these guys are into girls but have more important things to do with each other. We then hit the beat and see them doing those all-important things: Hutch eagerly walks alongside the Tomato, gun drawn, as Starsky drives with the door open, suggesting collaboration and partnership; the duo emerge drenched from a swimming pool, partly a pre-Mr Darcy demonstration of soaking wet masculine cool but also evidence that they are prepared to go through shit together as a team. We then see them having a laugh in Captain Dobey’s office, while dressed in undercover costumes. Hutch is a cowboy, Starsky a Travolta-style disco dancer; both outfits are slightly camp but acknowledge the guys’ innate sense of fun.

Next, the pair separate into singles for the build-up to their respective title cards; we oscillate between them running and jumping and shooting and doing all sorts of crazy man stuff, although hinting at their fallibility as they bounce off walls and land arse first on the roof of a car. The dramatis personae then unfolds, introducing not only David and Paul but also Antonio Fargas as Huggy Bear and Bernie Hamilton as Captain Dobey, two supporting but nevertheless principal characters both of whom were black which, despite them being somewhat stereotyped, remained a progressive move. The titles end with a vignette in which Starsky saves a bemused Hutch using a shopping trolley – a traditional signifier of feminine domestication – to break down a door at which moment an explosion blows Starsky into Hutch’s arms, forcing them into a momentary embrace. Brilliant.

I’m not suggesting the programme-makers were as rigorous in their devising of this title sequence as that analysis suggests, but there is no doubt it represents a cleverly constructed semiotic narrative that tells us everything we need to know about the show, most importantly that Starsky and Hutch have a deeply co-dependent relationship.

It was another ten years before John McClane arrived on the scene and truly cemented the vulnerable action hero in the cultural subconscious, starting a process of cultural dominoes that led to audiences accepting ordinary schmoes as heroic protagonists in films such as, well,
Shaun of the Dead
and
Hot Fuzz
. In fact, it could be convincingly argued that Nicholas Angel and Danny Butterman are partly the product of a fictional union between Starsky and Hutch; fictional because men can’t have babies and they wouldn’t have had sex anyway. Although Danny and Nicholas might.

It is also arguable that the last spurt of absurd masculinity represented by the muscle-bound, superhuman and sometimes non-human action heroes of the eighties could be attributed to a knee-jerk response to the slight feminising of the male characters acutely demonstrated in
Starsky & Hutch
. The show was certainly one of the first examples of what would in the future become known as the ‘bromance’. Sure, we had seen male bonding before in everything from Laurel and Hardy’s bed-sharing to Tony Curtis and Sidney Poitier’s handcuffed fugitives in Stanley Kramer’s 1958 prisoners-on-the-run classic
The Defiant Ones
, but
Starsky & Hutch
took the notion of male affection into the mainstream. When Starsky is strafed with bullets in a drive-by shooting that leaves Hutch potentially partnerless, we feel for him because he is losing someone he not only cares about but also most probably genuinely loves.

This relationship always appealed to me, perhaps because of the closeness I developed with my father as a result of his departure or just because I am not frightened of expressing love for boys. The relationship I have played out with Nick Frost both on and off screen has been hugely indicative of this. We are dear friends and I have no problem expressing that physically or emotionally. I can look him in the eye and tell him that I love him without feeling weird or fearing him recoiling and shouting ‘Get off me, you bummer’, although he sometimes does, we both do.

Our relationship heavily influenced the relationship between Tim and Mike in
Spaced
, Shaun and Ed in
Shaun of the Dead
, Nicholas and Danny in
Hot Fuzz
and most recently Graeme and Clive in
Paul
. Tim and Mike, together with Shaun and Ed, have an almost parent/child relationship with each other, Tim/Shaun being the father to the innocent/mischievous Mike/Ed. I am a few years older than Nick and have a more thorough academic history, and although I have learned as much from him as he has from me, at the outset of our friendship, I all but adopted him.

He was entirely complicit in this and came along of his own free will and with a voracious desire to discover new things. I fed him cinema and comedy and provided something of a cultural education, while he opened my eyes to realities my previous existence had kept me cloistered from. At first, I did have something of a paternal relationship with him. I encouraged him to pursue comedy because he impressed me immensely and his success has filled me with nothing but admiration and pride. The relationship between Danny Butterman and Nicholas Angel reflects this symbiosis completely. Angel represents everything Danny aspires to, whereas Danny represents everything Angel needs to understand in order to be a more rounded human being. I’ll talk more about my relationship and work with Nick Frost later, but there is no doubt in my mind that the male closeness I witnessed as a child, watching
Starsky & Hutch
, informed my attitude towards such relationships in later life. Ken and Dave taught me that man love was not something to fear but rather something to embrace and then pat heavily on the back.