Read by Greg Page
I caught sight of myself almost naked in the mirror earlier today. If I’m honest it was more of a deliberate peek. I’d just arrived at the hotel, you see, and thought I’d have a shower before I was due to be picked up. I didn’t like what I saw, though. My hair has started to recede, and I have acquired bags under my eyes that look large and almost droopy. My body is no longer supple, my chest hair is turning white and I seem to be developing breasts – what I think tonight’s audience would call “moobs” if I have the terminology correct. Thin spindly legs emerge from old-man’s y-fronts.
However, I just can’t help but feel that I could be doing much worse. My stomach hasn’t yet begun to take over my frame. I possess just a small paunch, for the time being anyway. And, when I concentrate, I can still get a decent erection without recourse to chemical stimulants. Do you know what I discovered earlier today that you can buy at service station toilets? Herbal Viagra. When I first started out in rep you were lucky if the local boozer sold condoms.
*
I met the Entertainment Liaison Officer in the hotel reception at 7.30 as instructed. Natalie, she was called. Following the emails we had traded I had imagined her to be slim and pouty. Instead, she looked like the most joyless individual I have ever come across. She wore thick rimmed glasses and a shapeless black turtle neck that looked designed to put the opposite sex off from making even the most cursory attempt to flirt.
“Welcome to Hull.” She consulted her watch, her clipboard, and then her watch again. “I’ve got a taxi waiting outside to take us to the Student Union.”
We spoke a little during the brief journey – I asked her what she was studying, and then I asked her if she used to watch Grange Hill.
“Oh yes, I used to really enjoy watching it. I was brought up in Harrogate, and I used to think that all schools in cities were like that. Don’t you think that sort of environment must be terribly distracting for the pupils?” she said, earnestly.
“Well … I … er … I wasn’t intimately involved with the research for the scripts, although I did quite a lot of preparation and studying for my role … Were you a particular fan of Mr Jones?” I had said puffing my chest out slightly.
She checked her watch and the clipboard before turning to face. “I can’t say I really remember you in it to be honest. Maybe you were before my time.”
*
I’m sure that you must recognise me – I played the part of Mr Jones, a history teacher, for five years. He represented a more liberal approach to education, and had several notable clashes with Mr Bronson. I had initially tried to play the role suggesting there was some sexual tension between my character and the headmistress, Mrs McCluskie, but the producers hadn’t been keen on my idea. Mr Jones eventually departed after getting a supply teacher pregnant; an ending that I always thought was slightly unfitting.
Natalie proceeded to ask me whether I had had the opportunity to enjoy Hull, although apart from Godber’s theatre I’d struggle to name any obvious charms. If I’m honest, by this point I had started to lose my patience with her so put my hand on her knee, and asked her why she had chosen to book me if she thought that I was “before her time”?
She lifted my hand at the wrist and placed it on my own knee, and smiled at me.
“If I’m honest Mr Flanders, Keith Harris and Orville were our first choice, but they weren’t available.”
*
When we arrived at the Student Union Natalie led me into the dressing room, if you can call it that. It seemed to be a small meeting room to one side of the dance floor, with a table and chairs that had been pushed to one side. Breeze blocks had been painted a pale yellow colour, presumably to try and cheer the room up, but if I’m honest the overall effect was more Guantanamo than Old Vic. “Is there anything I can get you to drink, Mr Flanders?”
“A pint would be nice – bitter if you have any.”
She came back a few minutes later, holding a couple of plastic glasses containing fizzy lager, each with a large frothy head. “I’m terribly sorry, but the bitter doesn’t appear to be on tonight.”
“All alco-pops these days, I suppose. Tell me, how did you become the, the …”
“Entertainment Liaison Officer?”
I nodded.
“Well, it’s an elected post, but no-one else seemed to put in nomination papers.”
“Student apathy, eh?”
“Well, not quite – the Athletics Union post was very hotly contested.”
“And was the successful candidate as … earnest as you?”
“The girl that they elected, well, I’ll put it this way, she’s blonde with big … you know, and she, erm … Well, there were rumours that she dispenses her favours easily, not that I like to gossip.”
“I see,” I said sitting forward, “and will there be an opportunity to meet the rest of the Student Union team?”
She looked down at her watch. “Erm, I don’t think so. I’ll come and collect you in ten minutes – it would be great if you could perhaps shout at some of the students as they come in, generally act like a teacher. I’m sure you know the kind of thing.”
I put my hand up. “I’ll stop you there, Natalie. You obviously don’t remember my character. I was a much more liberal personality and I don’t think that the people here would appreciate it if I were to step out of …”
“You’re meant to be a teacher, just shout at them, yeah?” she said, and walked out.
*
This was the first time that I had performed at a Student Union disco. My agent has been struggling to get me work for a while, and I haven’t really had a role on television since I played a cadaver on Waking the Dead. Apparently this is all the rage now – minor celebrities from children’s television or faded pop stars going round student unions to be leered at by drunken students. “Mr Bronson” is very much in demand, so I’m told. We used to look forward to productions of Waiting for Godot or The Moody Blues when I was studying, but now it seems like it's all irony and taking the proverbial.
*
Natalie got me to stand by the cloakroom, just in front of the entrance into the main room, loud music washing over me as the doors opened and closed. I was wearing a tweed jacket, a Grange Hill badge pinned to the lapel, and corduroy trousers with a shirt and tie. The university students filed past me and I told them to behave, or be quiet, or to not run in the corridors. People stood next to me and took pictures on their phones – better than being ignored I suppose.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a school disco: although it’s far from my idea of a fun evening, the girls were damned attractive. It’s like they’d flouted all the uniform rules you could possibly think of. Their skirt hems graced the tops of their thighs, and their blouses were open low to show off their cleavages. I did shout at one girl who was rather large that her skirt was too short – no-one wants to see as much flesh as she had on display. If I’m honest though, evenings like this were not how I saw myself when I was at RADA.
*
After I had finished my performance, which was distinctly out Mr Jones’ character, I returned to my dressing room, where Natalie had deposited another two pints of frothy lager. My ears were ringing, perhaps not surprising given that I had had to stand centre stage, escorted on by two girls who were again dressed in school uniform and whose contribution to the evening can perhaps best be described as podium dancing.
So grateful was I for some peace and quiet that I downed half the first pint and was just opening the packet of crisps that was going to have to substitute for my evening dinner, when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I said, expecting it to be the perpetually sour Natalie. Instead a girl in school uniform stepped in. She was slightly taller that I was, possibly because of the high heels she was wearing. She had blonde hair that had been pulled into bunches, freckles that had been drawn on to her cheeks. Only the middle two buttons of her blouse were done up, revealing a flat tanned stomach and a generous view of her breasts.
“Hi, I’m a member of the Student Union Council – I’m responsible for athletics, but I wanted to come and say thank you on behalf of the students,” she said, walking into the room with a swagger.
“Well, thank you for your gratitude,” I said, smiling broadly, feeling slightly dizzy from the alcohol.
She started to move in closer. “I can think of a better way to show our gratitude,” she said, bending down slightly and planting large kiss on my cheek. Suddenly her mouth was on mine and I slipped my arm round her waist, kissing her back deeply. Then there was a flash and a clicking noise next to us, and when I opened my eyes and turned round there was a boy stood there stood there with his phone in his hand.
“What the …?” I spluttered as she pulled away from me. She blew me a kiss before running off into the corridor. “I did it!” I could hear her shouting, “I said I’d get a snog with Mr Bronson!”
___
Brought up in Yorkshire, James Holden has washed up on the shores of London. He spends his days working as a political geek and his evenings dreaming about earning money from writing.
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