A still untitled, rather bad fanfic by yours truly, part II
In case anyone was wondering, I'm using Mike's diaries as a way to keep the chronology of events straight, since there's no way I could do it all from memory.
WE INTERRUPT YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED FANFIC WITH A MESSAGE FROM BBC1.
If you little knob-ends had been paying attention, you’d notice that Emma mentions she’d already been hired. It’s right at the beginning of the bloody thing, HOW could you not notice?
WE INTERRUPT YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED FANFIC WITH ANOTHER MESSAGE FROM BBC1.
The BBC apologizes for the harsh nature of that last announcement. The message’s announcer has been promptly sacked. And now, your regularly scheduled fanfic.
Much to my surprise, Ian McNaughton did phone me. I was in the middle of tea when the phone rang.
“Hello?” I said, rather nervously. Every time the phone rang since my interview, I would get a bit jumpy.
“Is this Emma Evans?” the voice on the other end asked. I didn’t recognize it.
“Yes, this is she,” I replied, still tense.
“This is Ian McNaughton, from the BBC, calling about the interview you had last week.” I could feel my heartbeat getting faster.
“Yes…” I said, trailing off a bit.
“I’d like to let you know you got the job. Out of all the candidates, you seemed the most eager to do it. Most of the others thought we were barmy to try and make them watch over a bunch of grown men, but once you meet the chaps, it should be pretty obvious why they need you,” Ian explained with a laugh. “The first day of shooting is July 8th; a car should be picking you up that morning at about 7 o’clock. I best be off now; ta love!”
I hung up the phone and stood there, mouth slightly agape. I was awestruck , to say the least.
Time flew by faster than I could blink, it seemed. On the morning of July 8th, I woke up at about five. I was quite knackered, but too nervous to sleep. Before I knew it, 7 o’clock came round.
A sleek black town car pulled up in my drive, almost on the dot. I pulled my hair back into a bun and practically ran outside; I hated being late for anything.
When I got into the car, I immediately noticed I wasn’t alone. I was accompanied by two men; one with rather long, curly blonde hair, striking blue eyes, and quite a thin face, and the other with light brown hair past his ears, and a small cleft chin.
“I’m afraid you’re in the wrong car, love,” the blonde said. “The secondary school bus stops just a few houses down the road.”
“You must be the one Ian was telling us about,” the brunette said, smiling toothily. “Next time, don’t be in such a rush; we’re not that important.” I couldn’t help but smile back.
“I’m Eric, Eric Idle,” the cheeky one said, reaching out his hand. “And this mad arse is Terry Gilliam.”
I shook Terry’s outstretched hand as well. “So what is this Bunn Wackett Buzzard Stubble and Boot business anyhow?” I asked, genuinely curious. All John had told me was that it was a comedy program.
“You’ll see when we get to Ham House,” Terry replied “I don’t want to give anything away.” His accent was rather distorted, like he wasn’t originally from England.
On the ride to Ham House, Eric and Terry fired questions at me. Like, how old was I? Where did I grow up? Where did I go to university (they both chuckled at my answer of Oxford, I had no idea why)? What kinds of things did I like (Eric grinned when I mentioned The Goon Show)? Had I seen a show called Do Not Adjust Your Set (I hadn’t)?
With all the talking going on, the drive seemed quite short. The house wasn’t too big or too small, just right. It seemed very homely, and welcoming. Its lawn was beautifully kept, with flowerbeds in the back.
I was instructed to follow Terry and Eric, and found myself within a rather large, chaotic mass of everything from cameras and sound equipment, to makeup people. I found my way out of the crowd, to a couple of small trailers with chairs in front of them. I found Eric and Terry there, with several other men. It seemed as if they hadn’t started filming yet; though a few of them looked a bit worn out. Ian was also there, and introduced me to them.
“This is Emma Evans, chaps. She’ll be your personal assistant. You need anything, anything at all, ask her,” he explained. “I’m guessing you met Eric and Gilliam on the ride here,” he said directly to me.
A short (but still taller than me), rather stocky man, with dark curly hair got up from where he was sitting.
“Terry Jones; pleasure to meet you,” he said kindly. His accent was quite funny-sounding. Welsh, maybe?
A rather tall, handsome, sandy haired man with shockingly blue eyes rose from his chair. He towered over me quite considerably; I had to crane my neck a bit to make eye contact.
“Doctor Graham Chapman,” he said with a dignified air.
Another one of the men laughed. This one had dark brown, wavy hair, freckles, and hazely-green eyes.
“Don’t talk such bollocks Graham,” he said with a chuckle. “He’s not really a doctor,” he said to me.
“You know right well I could be one!” Graham retorted, rather defensively.
“Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s a bit… off. I’m Michael, by the way.” He grinned rather giddily as he reached out his hand.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed there was someone missing from the little group that had formed near the trailers. There was an empty chair with a script laying haphazardly on it. I also realized Ian had fled the scene. I began to wonder why, when an immensely tall (even taller than Graham), dark haired man with a rather intimidating feeling about him approached us, with Ian trailing behind.
“We’re grown men for Christ’s sake! We don’t need a bloody babysitter!” the taller man groaned.
“She isn’t a babysitter John! She’s just here to… keep you in line,” Ian explained exasperatedly.
“Bollocks. If I needed someone to tell me what to do, I’d’ve brought my mum!”
“John, be polite!” Graham scolded, putting on a woman’s voice. “We have a guest, you know.”
John shot Graham a glare, then looked down at me skeptically, studying me for a moment. I felt even shorter than I was as he towered over me.
“I guess you’ll have to do, for now,” he sighed. “John Cleese.”
Mr. Davies had been right at my interview; they sure were an… eccentric bunch.
~ * ~
There hadn’t been much for me to do that day; they’d only managed to film a few scenes. One was about a group of superheroes whose nemesis was a bicycle repairman, and another was a slapstick bit about Queen Victoria and her gardener. I mostly sat and watched them film (which was quite a laugh), and chatted up whoever wasn’t working (or at least tried to). When I caught the 6 o’clock tube home, I was as knackered as I’d been when I woke up that morning, but it had been an interesting first day.