In our continuing series, character actor, Severus Snape and human being Alan Rickman reveals his innermost thoughts.
Sunken Dreams and Shitting Chick Peas
By far the most lavish and expensive indulgence of my life so far, my dream home, has fallen into the sea. It was the only building in a 10-mile radius on the only part of a cliff, which succumbed to thousands of years of ground weakening erosion. F@cking England!
Someone happened to be strolling past this secluded spot and, of course, filmed it on a camera phone and posted it. The destruction of my retirement dream is apparently very popular with over 23,000 ‘hits’ on something called ‘YouTube’.
I have two months off before the play opens and need something to occupy my time and take my mind off my sunken digs. Serge (my manager) has called me to his office to discuss some offers. Owing to some recent misdemeanors recently posted on ‘YouTube’, it seems I am in high demand.
‘You’re just hilarious in a crisis Man-Rick! It’s what the people want to see.’ Says Serge, somehow, through a mouthful of meatballs.
The ‘project’ in question is ‘Desert Island Ricks’, a concept dreamed up by Serge himself and offered to Channel 4 without consulting me first; Me, Ricky Gervais and an 80’s pop star (I’ve never heard of him) called Rick Astley, marooned on an island with a camera crew and the ‘chips fall where they may’ as he says. ‘No’ I say.
‘This is GOLD Rick! Solid GOLD! I swear, in the meeting, we laughed for a solid 30 minutes. And what I find funny, the PEOPLE find funny, Rick, you know this.’
‘I’m not doing it.’
‘F@ck a duck Rick, I’ve already said yes’
‘I’m saying no.’
‘How strong a “no” is it?’
‘I’d rather eat a scrotum full of dead flies Serge.’
‘Now THAT would be gold!’
Channel 4 are suing. Long story short; Serge ‘agreed’ to this project on my behalf a whole month before asking me about it. He even faked my signature on the contract. They want me to cover the loss of the entire project. Serge is saying they’ll take half as a settlement on the basis that I do them a ‘favour’ down the line.
I fire Serge over the phone on a Beautiful Friday afternoon and flop on the couch and have the most peaceful nap I have had all year. The phone rings 10 minutes later. It’s Serge, telling me to turn on the news. I do it. Live footage of a theatre in flames. My theatre. I answer another phone call, my play is cancelled indefinitely. I answer another phone call, Chanel 4 have changed their mind and want to take me to court for the full amount after all. I phone Serge and re-hire him. I make some lunch, there are chickpeas in my salad. I have a nuts and pulses allergy. My throat starts to close and I can hardly breathe. I suddenly have violent diarrhea and owing to my state of worsening anaphylactic shock, cannot get my knickers off in time. I soil myself and pass out.
The first face I see, of course, is Serge’s. He looks happier than I have ever seen him.
‘I’ve done it…I’ve f@cking done it!’
‘Where am I?’
‘On top of a gold mine old cock!’ He thrusts a manuscript in my face; I’m in hospital, obviously. I try to sit up and the covers fall to the side. I’m not wearing any knickers. ‘Look at it Rick, LOOK AT IT!’
I take the manuscript from him in the hopes that he will stop shouting for a minute. My head is spinning. I look at the front page and my head spins even more. ‘What the fuck is this Serge? My character died in part 1! Are you insane?’
‘No, no no! ha ha ha ha! You’re the HERO this time, that’s the twist. It’s beyond genius. And I’ve convinced those dicks at Chanel 4 to come on as producers…they’re dropping their case. Who the man?’
I look down at the script and read the title.
‘RICK-HARD: Die hard Rebooted.’
TO BE CONTINUED.