golden mane that crested a good half-foot above her head; cheeks and eyelids plastered with a shade of shocking pink that had died out nowadays—thankfully—along with pirate shirts, suede pixie boots and T-shirts instructing the world in general to ‘RELAX’.
‘How could you do this to us. How could you do this me ?’ she over-enunciated, moist lips quivering. The camera cut to the room she was in; a cross between a Russian palace (curtains and props courtesy of a BBC production of War and Peace ) and an ultra-modern control centre (set borrowed from Blake’s 7 ). There was a large screen, crudely pasted on the wall with BBC special effects.
‘Forgive me sister. I have this weakness for wanting to be on the winning side.’
On the screen was the evil Medula. She was wearing a jet-black wig in a severe Cleopatra style. Her costume and make-up were all in blacks and purples. One might as well have CEEFAX subtitles flash up the word ‘villainess’.
‘But they’ll destroy the whole Vixen empire!’ wailed Vanity as, yet again, her face filled the wall of the ballroom.
Medula folded her arms in triumph. ‘The Day of the Vixen is over. The Day of the Styrax is just beginning!’
The credits rolled. There was spontaneous applause and whooping from the murky figures in the chairs.
‘Aren’t you dead yet?’ hissed a voice to Mervyn’s left. ‘I could have sworn I’d read your obituary in The Independent at least four times.’
‘Now you’re just being silly Nicholas. There’s no way I’d be seen dead in The Independent . You know and I know if I go, it’ll be nine inches in the The Telegraph or nothing.’
‘Nine inches? You’d have to mow down a bus queue for that, petal.’
Squinting in the semi-darkness, Mervyn could see a tanned, well-fed face under a flamboyantly dyed bouffant.
‘Dodgy old rubbish, isn’t it old love?’ The ex-Producer of Vixens from the Void pointed at the screen, grinned, and immaculately capped teeth glowed out of a well-trimmed beard. ‘But not bad for a budget of fifty quid and a toffee apple per show.’
‘Let me tell you, Nicholas, it’s got its own primitive charm. I’ve just seen it with very loud state-of-the-art effects and it’s not pretty.’
Mervyn liked Nicholas, and thoroughly enjoyed the time they’d worked together on Vixens . It was a rare thing for script editor and producer to get on so well, but Nicholas wasn’t one of those TV types who thought that being ostentatiously gay gave him the automatic right to throw his toys out of his pram and sulk at the production teams. Nicholas’s overt campery was the gloss on a deeply sensitive and shy man who listened very carefully to people who knew their jobs. Mervyn was deeply touched that Nicholas counted him among those few people.
‘How’s business in the touring game?’ he asked.
‘Oh positively booming, dear heart. This summer, I’ve shunted three arty exhibitions, two tribute bands and a rather spectacular pyrotechnic light show around the country. I’ve also had the dubious honour of being nursemaid to a particularly innovative—read dodgy—production of Midsummer Night’s Dream . I’m pleased to have the opportunity to shake the crumbs off my favourite old double entendre and say that the whole south coast of England has seen my experimental Bottom.’
Mervyn’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. He noticed Bernard Viner, the third member of their panel, sitting sullenly on a chair near the stage. He didn’t look very happy.
Oh dear , thought Mervyn. I really shouldn’t have sent that fan to show him his CGI stuff .
*
The behind-the-scenes panel was to follow the clips. While the screens showed more highlights from Vixens from the Void , four large comfortable chairs were placed in a semi-circle on stage. After five minutes, the screens went blank. On cue, the crowd stopped milling and found a place to sit.
Minnie was there by the sound desk, arms folded. She caught his eye and
‘How could you do this to us. How could you do this me ?’ she over-enunciated, moist lips quivering. The camera cut to the room she was in; a cross between a Russian palace (curtains and props courtesy of a BBC production of War and Peace ) and an ultra-modern control centre (set borrowed from Blake’s 7 ). There was a large screen, crudely pasted on the wall with BBC special effects.
‘Forgive me sister. I have this weakness for wanting to be on the winning side.’
On the screen was the evil Medula. She was wearing a jet-black wig in a severe Cleopatra style. Her costume and make-up were all in blacks and purples. One might as well have CEEFAX subtitles flash up the word ‘villainess’.
‘But they’ll destroy the whole Vixen empire!’ wailed Vanity as, yet again, her face filled the wall of the ballroom.
Medula folded her arms in triumph. ‘The Day of the Vixen is over. The Day of the Styrax is just beginning!’
The credits rolled. There was spontaneous applause and whooping from the murky figures in the chairs.
‘Aren’t you dead yet?’ hissed a voice to Mervyn’s left. ‘I could have sworn I’d read your obituary in The Independent at least four times.’
‘Now you’re just being silly Nicholas. There’s no way I’d be seen dead in The Independent . You know and I know if I go, it’ll be nine inches in the The Telegraph or nothing.’
‘Nine inches? You’d have to mow down a bus queue for that, petal.’
Squinting in the semi-darkness, Mervyn could see a tanned, well-fed face under a flamboyantly dyed bouffant.
‘Dodgy old rubbish, isn’t it old love?’ The ex-Producer of Vixens from the Void pointed at the screen, grinned, and immaculately capped teeth glowed out of a well-trimmed beard. ‘But not bad for a budget of fifty quid and a toffee apple per show.’
‘Let me tell you, Nicholas, it’s got its own primitive charm. I’ve just seen it with very loud state-of-the-art effects and it’s not pretty.’
Mervyn liked Nicholas, and thoroughly enjoyed the time they’d worked together on Vixens . It was a rare thing for script editor and producer to get on so well, but Nicholas wasn’t one of those TV types who thought that being ostentatiously gay gave him the automatic right to throw his toys out of his pram and sulk at the production teams. Nicholas’s overt campery was the gloss on a deeply sensitive and shy man who listened very carefully to people who knew their jobs. Mervyn was deeply touched that Nicholas counted him among those few people.
‘How’s business in the touring game?’ he asked.
‘Oh positively booming, dear heart. This summer, I’ve shunted three arty exhibitions, two tribute bands and a rather spectacular pyrotechnic light show around the country. I’ve also had the dubious honour of being nursemaid to a particularly innovative—read dodgy—production of Midsummer Night’s Dream . I’m pleased to have the opportunity to shake the crumbs off my favourite old double entendre and say that the whole south coast of England has seen my experimental Bottom.’
Mervyn’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. He noticed Bernard Viner, the third member of their panel, sitting sullenly on a chair near the stage. He didn’t look very happy.
Oh dear , thought Mervyn. I really shouldn’t have sent that fan to show him his CGI stuff .
*
The behind-the-scenes panel was to follow the clips. While the screens showed more highlights from Vixens from the Void , four large comfortable chairs were placed in a semi-circle on stage. After five minutes, the screens went blank. On cue, the crowd stopped milling and found a place to sit.
Minnie was there by the sound desk, arms folded. She caught his eye and
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