AHA, BOBBEHFIC CHRISTMAS EDITION.
I think all you need to know on the personal front is that:
a) The job centre is useless.
b) I need a father who is a father and doesn't say the meanest possible thing ever.
c) This week = pants. Except for Wednesday which wasn't - merci beaucoup, Craig.
Okay, let's get on with the good bit. I promised
mysticheaven Christmas Bobbehfic. So Christmas Bobbehfic I will deliver.
Title: A Bobbeh Carol (Part One)
Author's Notes: You know the story of Christmas Carol? Good, because that's what I'm doing. Original, huh? Dedicated to Ehma. And Bobbeh Lindsay, seeming as we failed to recognise his birthday last week :(
Warnings: This was clean until Bobbeh Lindsay and Nick T trampled their swears over it.
Disclaimer: Sorry, Dickens. Truly sorry.
Starring:
Bobbeh Lindsay
Tim
Nick T
Nick M
Alex
Paul
A Bobbeh Christmas Carol. Part One.
T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Which was just as well, because Bobbeh Lindsay was currently in a frightful mood - a most surly disposition that no self respecting mouse would ever want to be on the receiving end of.
All month, Bobbeh Lindsay had been working flat out at the dingy, run-down, flea-ridden pub theatre in the rougher area of town. He’d been directing his first ever play, It Wos Him Wot Dunnit, but if one was honest, directing didn’t appear to be his forte. Or at least, it certainly wasn’t having a positive effect on his naturally gruff temperament and limited patience. The play had been fraught with problems from the start from awkward technicians to dodgy set design (only the previous night had Bobbeh Lindsay narrowly escaped a potentially embarrassing injury from a wayward plastic lamppost). Within the last week, however, tension amongst the cast had reached an all-time high. Lindsay had insisted they utilise every possible hour before Christmas Day, to try and hone the play into something that wasn’t a complete farce (seeming as comedy was *not* the genre he had been aiming for), and this proposal hadn’t gone down (…) too well.
This particular night, Christmas Eve - if that meant anything to Bobbeh Lindsay - two members of the cast had decided to storm out and leave altogether. Privately, Lindsay wouldn’t exactly miss them (one was creating far too many costume and lighting issues, the other he‘d only cast in an attempt to boost the audience number with hordes of teenage girls - who in retrospect would only be compromising his creative integrity anyway). But this really was a great big buggering spanner in the works.
To Bobbeh Lindsay’s amazement, there had only been one cast member who had not been causing trouble for him left right and centre. No complaining about the long rehearsal hours, no moaning about the lack of lunch breaks, no whining that the lighting was disrespecting his cheekbones. Whoever else had been stomping their feet, one man had somehow managed to get on with the task with some degree of professionalism. And that man was Tim.
Not that this had had any bearing on Bobbeh Lindsay’s first impression of Tim. Which was that Tim was still….. An Annoyingly Chirpy Posh Luvvie Git. He was just so bloody optimistic and polite and bloody nice. This frustrated Bobbeh Lindsay endlessly because he just couldn’t fanthom how anyone could be like that so much of the time.
Christmas had, in Lindsay’s opinion, made Tim even worse. After that night’s (distastrous) rehearsal, Lindsay had bumped into Tim as the Chirpy Posh Luvvie Git was coming out of his meagre dressing room (or rather, Dressing Cupboard).
“Gosh, hello there, Mr Lindsay. I say, tonight’s performance went rather well, didn’t it? It’s coming along absolutely marvellously. Should be spiffing by the new year. Shame about our two losses, though. Still - I imagine Bobbeh and Ioan will be back in the blink of an eyelid. And speaking of the new year, a merry Christmas to you, Mr Lindsay. God save you!”
In return, Bobbeh Lindsay had blinked incredulously at Tim. The actor’s level of cheerfulness had become entirely incomprehensible. A ‘good performance’? Coming along ‘marvellously’? A ‘merry Christmas’? Was he *completely* insane? With great difficulty, Lindsay had tried to respond to this Annoyingly Chirpy Posh Luvvie Git Who Was Quite Clearly Two Saucers Short of a Teaset. But words were failing him, and his incredulousness bubbled up inside him until two words managed to escape his lips.
“Bah!” growled Bobbeh Lindsay. “Humbug!”
Tim looked taken aback. “Christmas a humbug, Mr Lindsay? You don’t mean that, surely?”
“Of course I bloody mean it.” muttered Bobbeh Lindsay. “’Merry Christmas’ indeed. What right have you got to be merry? What *reason* have you got to be so bloody merry? This play’s hopeless and you’re poor enough.”
This was quite true. For while Tim had appeared to be financially secure in previous fics, for some reason he currently wasn’t and was barely being paid by Bobbeh Lindsay. Shh.
“Oh, come then. What right have you got to be dismal? What reason have you got to be so morose?” replied Tim gamely. “You’re… rich enough?” he added, far more uncertainly.
Bobbeh Lindsay glared at him with annoyance and a small hint of surprise. Having no better answer on the spur of the moment, he simply said, “Bah!” again, and followed it up with “Humbug!”.
Tim patted him on the shoulder. “I say, don’t be cross old bean!”
Lindsay shrugged him off with an aggressive jerk of his shoulder. “What else can I be when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry bloody Christmas. What’s Christmas time to you, but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for trying to organize a stupid poxy little play and having every bloody thing work against you? If I’d have my way, “ said Lindsay indignantly, “Every idiot who goes around with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart, he bloody should.”
“S’bit much.” said Tim, looking affronted.
“Keep Christmas in your way, and let me keep it in mine!” snapped Lindsay. “Good evening!”
And with that, Bobbeh Lindsay had left the theatre, grumbling to himself for the entirety of the journey home in the heavy snow that had begun to fall. His already bad mood was made far worse (if that was possible, and apparently it was), however, by two gentlemen who had accosted him by the side of the road.
One was an angular, scrawny wench of a man clothed in stripes and tight trousers. The other was dressed rather dandily in a trilby hat and suit accessorised by gold jewellery. This dark-haired man had a peculiar way of not looking at Bobbeh Lindsay at all, choosing instead to stare into the middle distance, intent concentration etched on his face. It was his colleague who did the talking, grabbing hold of Lindsay’s shoulder and addressing him in a husky Scottish accent.
“Hi, I’m Alex Kapranos, an’ this is ma wee friend Paul here. Would I be right in thinkin’ you’re Bobbeh Lindsay?”
“Yes….but…” faltered Lindsay, perturbed by the tight grip on his shoulder.
“Superfantastisch. At this festive time of the year, Mister Lindsay, it’s especially important that we spare a thought fae those less fortunate than ourselves. You may have noticed that the place is hoachin’ with poore, penniless musicians and artists. A few of us are endeavouring tae raise some money tae buy the poore fellas some meat and drink, and means of warmth. Actually, scrap that last one, Paul, I can sort that one out. We choose this time because it is a time, of all others, when want is… keenly felt. Yeah, and abundance rejoices. What will you be giving us, Mister Lindsay? We’ll write your donation down…”
Alex shook a collecting tin enthusiastically at Bobbeh Lindsay.
“Nothing!” squeaked Lindsay, appalled at this young rapscallion’s cheek.
“Ah, you wish tae be anonymous? That’s okay, we can do that. Hey Paul, could you hand me the anonymous pen?”
“NO.” stressed Lindsay, “I wish to be left alone, not make a bloody donation. I don’t make myself merry at Christmas, and I certainly can’t afford to make idle people merry. It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. My business occupies me constantly. If you want money, you should consider selling that rather flashy gold necklace your mate appears to be wearing. Now, ‘oppit, will you?”
Realising that there was no point in pursuing the matter further, Alex and Paul turned away, Alex muttering under his breath that, “Doesn’t matter, Pauley, Nick will get something for us. He’ll deliver the goods, he always does…”.
And with that, and in an even more facetious temper than usual, Bobbeh Lindsay had made his way home, eager to get to bed. Unfortunately for him, the journey was even longer than usual as, in order to evade a group of carol singers, and in fear of happening apon Alex and Paul again, he had took the long route. He bypassed his usual drink at the local pub in his haste to get back, and was relieved to finally arrive home, his teeth chattering from the cold.
Not that his relief had lasted long. As the front door banged shut behind him, the sound resonated like thunder throughout the otherwise silent dwelling. The place was dark, and despite being indoors, Lindsay still felt bitterly cold - the electricity had obviously been playing up again. Loathe to sorting it out at such a late hour, he sighed and made his way to the bedroom with only moonlight to guide him. And as he did so, a strange feeling of uneasiness began to creep up on him. He may have had peace at last, but there was something far too eerie in the cold, silent air.
Stranger still, Bobbeh Lindsay found himself looking under the bed, before locking the bedroom door. Nobody was there, of course, and he felt annoyed at himself for being so silly as he got into his bed, wrapping the duvet tightly around himself.
But he couldn’t sleep. The strange sense of unease was keeping him awake, although he liked to think that it was his watch, ticking quietly away on the bedside table, that was to blame. He opened his eyes to glare at it’s little watch face.
Lindsay then shut his eyes once again, but at that precise moment there was a deafening metallic clang, and the distinct sound of someone shouting, “OW. BUGGER!”
Bobbeh Lindsay sat bolt upright to see what appeared to be a short and heavily sideburned man in scruffy jeans and shirt, picking himself up off the floor at the foot of Lindsay’s bed.
“BLOODY HELL….” said the intruder, his voice slightly nasal and completely loud, “I CAUGHT the foot of YOUR BED, there. That BLOODY HURT, that did.”
“Er…” faltered Lindsay, “Do you want to give an explanation now, or should I just get on with calling the Police?”
The man, who for some reason was covered in metal chains, seemed to be shocked at this suggestion. “’Ere, I’m not doing ANYTHING WRONG or nothing.”
“…. Breaking and entering, I think.” corrected Lindsay.
“I’ll HAVE YOU KNOW that I’ve not BROKEN or ENTERED ANYTHING. Er, actually, that might not be strictly TRUE….. Nick, have you BROKEN ANYTHING here?”
To his amazement, Bobbeh Lindsay saw that there was in fact another intruder, a short and sharp-cheekboned fellow in a garish shirt, sneaking around his bedroom in the shadows looking rather shifty. Apart from when he grinned and waved at Lindsay, that is.
“What the… what the….” gasped Lindsay, “What the blazes is going on? How dare you sneak into my home, waking me up, you pair of crooks…!”
The first man looked affronted. “Ere, NO, that’s NOT what this is about! Nick, put that DOWN. You’re giving him the WRONG IMPRESSION….. Look, Mr Lindsay, we’re COMPLETELY LEGIT, HONEST.”
“You’re completely loud. Could you stop yelling at me?”
“….Oh, sorry. Used to the audience being a bit further away.”
“Wait a minute, you know my name?”
“Sure, yeah…” The man nodded earnestly. “Don’t you remember me?”
“Not a bit.”
“S’Nick Tennant, innit?…. Nicolas? Worked with you on a play once? Some comedy or summat, I dunno. At the playhouse?”
Bobbeh Lindsay blinked at him blankly. “I think you’re making this up, Mr… Tennant.”
Nick shrugged. “Suit yourself. This is my business colleague, by the way - Nick McCarthy. Call him Nick M, gets confusing otherwise. And he’s not eyeing up your shoes or anything there, honest.”
“Yes, but why are you *here*? How did you get in?”
“Er… not sure about the second one, to be honest.” Nick Tennant scratched his head in thought. “Just sorta happened really, yeah. But we’re here because we’ve got a ….. very important Christmas message.”
“Oh, you’re not one of those fancy carol singers, are you? Go on, piss off already.”
“Actually, no, but you’ve just highlighted the reason why we’re here. You’ve well lost the Christmas spirit. Hasn’t he, Nick?”
“Ja” nodded Nick M. “Er ist ein jämmerlich selbstgerechter Wichser.”
“S’one thing being miserable all year, but you can’t be a right grumpy sod at Christmas time. It’ll be a disaster from a career point of view.”
“I don’t need to worry about that, though.” insisted Bobbeh Lindsay. “My real life equivalent, Robert Lindsay, is amiable enough.”
“It’s too late to start being all post-modern in this fic, Mr Lindsay.” Nick T warned, wagging his finger at Lindsay. “You’re gonna be visited by three….. Bobbehs.”
“No.”
“Really. To teach you… the true meaning of Christmas and all that.”
“I think I’d rather not.” said Bobbeh Lindsay.
“….Well, tough. You need to lighten up, let your hair down, mate. Anyway, you can expect the first one, at one o’clock. Don’t look at me like that, I dunno why.”
“Couldn’t I take them all at once and get it over with?” hinted Lindsay.
“Hey, I don’t plan these things. Second one’s at two o’clock, the last one’s an hour later. Dunno why they bother, really.”
“Listen, I really must take issue with this impertinent…”
“Oi, don’t shoot the messenger!” protested Nick T, holding up his arms as best he could. “Bloody hell, Nick M, whatcha have to steal theses chains for? We’re gonna have to lug them all the way back to the bar now, and I don’t fancy being chained to you much. You can get up to what you like with Alex, don’t start doing it with me.”
Gathering up the heavy metal chains, Nick T unlocked the bedroom door. “Think we best use the front door this time, eh Nick? Come on. Merry Christmas, Mr Lindsay! Good luck!”
And with a wave, the two Nicks were gone. As the sound of clunking metal faded down the stairs, Bobbeh Lindsay settled back under the duvet, shaking his head in disbelief. His life had seemed to get more and more incredible lately, but this really was taking the chocolate digestive.
Strangely, this distraction seemed to have worked wonders in allowing his mind to forget his earlier unrest and drift off to sleep. The next thing he knew, he was waking up again; his sleepy eyelids opening to reveal that it was in fact still night but one hour had passed. As he looked up at his watch, Bobbeh Lindsay slowly became aware of what had woken him. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. A strange metallic tapping noise, very nearby. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.
Nervously, Lindsay’s eyes moved to the source of the noise…. A young Bobbeh stood by his bed, urgently tapping the bed frame to get his attention.
“Bobbeh Lindsay, Bobbeh Lindsay! Have I got the right place?”
~ End of Part One ~
a) The job centre is useless.
b) I need a father who is a father and doesn't say the meanest possible thing ever.
c) This week = pants. Except for Wednesday which wasn't - merci beaucoup, Craig.
Okay, let's get on with the good bit. I promised
mysticheaven Christmas Bobbehfic. So Christmas Bobbehfic I will deliver.
Title: A Bobbeh Carol (Part One)
Author's Notes: You know the story of Christmas Carol? Good, because that's what I'm doing. Original, huh? Dedicated to Ehma. And Bobbeh Lindsay, seeming as we failed to recognise his birthday last week :(
Warnings: This was clean until Bobbeh Lindsay and Nick T trampled their swears over it.
Disclaimer: Sorry, Dickens. Truly sorry.
Starring:
Bobbeh Lindsay
Tim
Nick T
Nick M
Alex
Paul
A Bobbeh Christmas Carol. Part One.
T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Which was just as well, because Bobbeh Lindsay was currently in a frightful mood - a most surly disposition that no self respecting mouse would ever want to be on the receiving end of.
All month, Bobbeh Lindsay had been working flat out at the dingy, run-down, flea-ridden pub theatre in the rougher area of town. He’d been directing his first ever play, It Wos Him Wot Dunnit, but if one was honest, directing didn’t appear to be his forte. Or at least, it certainly wasn’t having a positive effect on his naturally gruff temperament and limited patience. The play had been fraught with problems from the start from awkward technicians to dodgy set design (only the previous night had Bobbeh Lindsay narrowly escaped a potentially embarrassing injury from a wayward plastic lamppost). Within the last week, however, tension amongst the cast had reached an all-time high. Lindsay had insisted they utilise every possible hour before Christmas Day, to try and hone the play into something that wasn’t a complete farce (seeming as comedy was *not* the genre he had been aiming for), and this proposal hadn’t gone down (…) too well.
This particular night, Christmas Eve - if that meant anything to Bobbeh Lindsay - two members of the cast had decided to storm out and leave altogether. Privately, Lindsay wouldn’t exactly miss them (one was creating far too many costume and lighting issues, the other he‘d only cast in an attempt to boost the audience number with hordes of teenage girls - who in retrospect would only be compromising his creative integrity anyway). But this really was a great big buggering spanner in the works.
To Bobbeh Lindsay’s amazement, there had only been one cast member who had not been causing trouble for him left right and centre. No complaining about the long rehearsal hours, no moaning about the lack of lunch breaks, no whining that the lighting was disrespecting his cheekbones. Whoever else had been stomping their feet, one man had somehow managed to get on with the task with some degree of professionalism. And that man was Tim.
Not that this had had any bearing on Bobbeh Lindsay’s first impression of Tim. Which was that Tim was still….. An Annoyingly Chirpy Posh Luvvie Git. He was just so bloody optimistic and polite and bloody nice. This frustrated Bobbeh Lindsay endlessly because he just couldn’t fanthom how anyone could be like that so much of the time.
Christmas had, in Lindsay’s opinion, made Tim even worse. After that night’s (distastrous) rehearsal, Lindsay had bumped into Tim as the Chirpy Posh Luvvie Git was coming out of his meagre dressing room (or rather, Dressing Cupboard).
“Gosh, hello there, Mr Lindsay. I say, tonight’s performance went rather well, didn’t it? It’s coming along absolutely marvellously. Should be spiffing by the new year. Shame about our two losses, though. Still - I imagine Bobbeh and Ioan will be back in the blink of an eyelid. And speaking of the new year, a merry Christmas to you, Mr Lindsay. God save you!”
In return, Bobbeh Lindsay had blinked incredulously at Tim. The actor’s level of cheerfulness had become entirely incomprehensible. A ‘good performance’? Coming along ‘marvellously’? A ‘merry Christmas’? Was he *completely* insane? With great difficulty, Lindsay had tried to respond to this Annoyingly Chirpy Posh Luvvie Git Who Was Quite Clearly Two Saucers Short of a Teaset. But words were failing him, and his incredulousness bubbled up inside him until two words managed to escape his lips.
“Bah!” growled Bobbeh Lindsay. “Humbug!”
Tim looked taken aback. “Christmas a humbug, Mr Lindsay? You don’t mean that, surely?”
“Of course I bloody mean it.” muttered Bobbeh Lindsay. “’Merry Christmas’ indeed. What right have you got to be merry? What *reason* have you got to be so bloody merry? This play’s hopeless and you’re poor enough.”
This was quite true. For while Tim had appeared to be financially secure in previous fics, for some reason he currently wasn’t and was barely being paid by Bobbeh Lindsay. Shh.
“Oh, come then. What right have you got to be dismal? What reason have you got to be so morose?” replied Tim gamely. “You’re… rich enough?” he added, far more uncertainly.
Bobbeh Lindsay glared at him with annoyance and a small hint of surprise. Having no better answer on the spur of the moment, he simply said, “Bah!” again, and followed it up with “Humbug!”.
Tim patted him on the shoulder. “I say, don’t be cross old bean!”
Lindsay shrugged him off with an aggressive jerk of his shoulder. “What else can I be when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry bloody Christmas. What’s Christmas time to you, but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for trying to organize a stupid poxy little play and having every bloody thing work against you? If I’d have my way, “ said Lindsay indignantly, “Every idiot who goes around with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart, he bloody should.”
“S’bit much.” said Tim, looking affronted.
“Keep Christmas in your way, and let me keep it in mine!” snapped Lindsay. “Good evening!”
And with that, Bobbeh Lindsay had left the theatre, grumbling to himself for the entirety of the journey home in the heavy snow that had begun to fall. His already bad mood was made far worse (if that was possible, and apparently it was), however, by two gentlemen who had accosted him by the side of the road.
One was an angular, scrawny wench of a man clothed in stripes and tight trousers. The other was dressed rather dandily in a trilby hat and suit accessorised by gold jewellery. This dark-haired man had a peculiar way of not looking at Bobbeh Lindsay at all, choosing instead to stare into the middle distance, intent concentration etched on his face. It was his colleague who did the talking, grabbing hold of Lindsay’s shoulder and addressing him in a husky Scottish accent.
“Hi, I’m Alex Kapranos, an’ this is ma wee friend Paul here. Would I be right in thinkin’ you’re Bobbeh Lindsay?”
“Yes….but…” faltered Lindsay, perturbed by the tight grip on his shoulder.
“Superfantastisch. At this festive time of the year, Mister Lindsay, it’s especially important that we spare a thought fae those less fortunate than ourselves. You may have noticed that the place is hoachin’ with poore, penniless musicians and artists. A few of us are endeavouring tae raise some money tae buy the poore fellas some meat and drink, and means of warmth. Actually, scrap that last one, Paul, I can sort that one out. We choose this time because it is a time, of all others, when want is… keenly felt. Yeah, and abundance rejoices. What will you be giving us, Mister Lindsay? We’ll write your donation down…”
Alex shook a collecting tin enthusiastically at Bobbeh Lindsay.
“Nothing!” squeaked Lindsay, appalled at this young rapscallion’s cheek.
“Ah, you wish tae be anonymous? That’s okay, we can do that. Hey Paul, could you hand me the anonymous pen?”
“NO.” stressed Lindsay, “I wish to be left alone, not make a bloody donation. I don’t make myself merry at Christmas, and I certainly can’t afford to make idle people merry. It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. My business occupies me constantly. If you want money, you should consider selling that rather flashy gold necklace your mate appears to be wearing. Now, ‘oppit, will you?”
Realising that there was no point in pursuing the matter further, Alex and Paul turned away, Alex muttering under his breath that, “Doesn’t matter, Pauley, Nick will get something for us. He’ll deliver the goods, he always does…”.
And with that, and in an even more facetious temper than usual, Bobbeh Lindsay had made his way home, eager to get to bed. Unfortunately for him, the journey was even longer than usual as, in order to evade a group of carol singers, and in fear of happening apon Alex and Paul again, he had took the long route. He bypassed his usual drink at the local pub in his haste to get back, and was relieved to finally arrive home, his teeth chattering from the cold.
Not that his relief had lasted long. As the front door banged shut behind him, the sound resonated like thunder throughout the otherwise silent dwelling. The place was dark, and despite being indoors, Lindsay still felt bitterly cold - the electricity had obviously been playing up again. Loathe to sorting it out at such a late hour, he sighed and made his way to the bedroom with only moonlight to guide him. And as he did so, a strange feeling of uneasiness began to creep up on him. He may have had peace at last, but there was something far too eerie in the cold, silent air.
Stranger still, Bobbeh Lindsay found himself looking under the bed, before locking the bedroom door. Nobody was there, of course, and he felt annoyed at himself for being so silly as he got into his bed, wrapping the duvet tightly around himself.
But he couldn’t sleep. The strange sense of unease was keeping him awake, although he liked to think that it was his watch, ticking quietly away on the bedside table, that was to blame. He opened his eyes to glare at it’s little watch face.
Lindsay then shut his eyes once again, but at that precise moment there was a deafening metallic clang, and the distinct sound of someone shouting, “OW. BUGGER!”
Bobbeh Lindsay sat bolt upright to see what appeared to be a short and heavily sideburned man in scruffy jeans and shirt, picking himself up off the floor at the foot of Lindsay’s bed.
“BLOODY HELL….” said the intruder, his voice slightly nasal and completely loud, “I CAUGHT the foot of YOUR BED, there. That BLOODY HURT, that did.”
“Er…” faltered Lindsay, “Do you want to give an explanation now, or should I just get on with calling the Police?”
The man, who for some reason was covered in metal chains, seemed to be shocked at this suggestion. “’Ere, I’m not doing ANYTHING WRONG or nothing.”
“…. Breaking and entering, I think.” corrected Lindsay.
“I’ll HAVE YOU KNOW that I’ve not BROKEN or ENTERED ANYTHING. Er, actually, that might not be strictly TRUE….. Nick, have you BROKEN ANYTHING here?”
To his amazement, Bobbeh Lindsay saw that there was in fact another intruder, a short and sharp-cheekboned fellow in a garish shirt, sneaking around his bedroom in the shadows looking rather shifty. Apart from when he grinned and waved at Lindsay, that is.
“What the… what the….” gasped Lindsay, “What the blazes is going on? How dare you sneak into my home, waking me up, you pair of crooks…!”
The first man looked affronted. “Ere, NO, that’s NOT what this is about! Nick, put that DOWN. You’re giving him the WRONG IMPRESSION….. Look, Mr Lindsay, we’re COMPLETELY LEGIT, HONEST.”
“You’re completely loud. Could you stop yelling at me?”
“….Oh, sorry. Used to the audience being a bit further away.”
“Wait a minute, you know my name?”
“Sure, yeah…” The man nodded earnestly. “Don’t you remember me?”
“Not a bit.”
“S’Nick Tennant, innit?…. Nicolas? Worked with you on a play once? Some comedy or summat, I dunno. At the playhouse?”
Bobbeh Lindsay blinked at him blankly. “I think you’re making this up, Mr… Tennant.”
Nick shrugged. “Suit yourself. This is my business colleague, by the way - Nick McCarthy. Call him Nick M, gets confusing otherwise. And he’s not eyeing up your shoes or anything there, honest.”
“Yes, but why are you *here*? How did you get in?”
“Er… not sure about the second one, to be honest.” Nick Tennant scratched his head in thought. “Just sorta happened really, yeah. But we’re here because we’ve got a ….. very important Christmas message.”
“Oh, you’re not one of those fancy carol singers, are you? Go on, piss off already.”
“Actually, no, but you’ve just highlighted the reason why we’re here. You’ve well lost the Christmas spirit. Hasn’t he, Nick?”
“Ja” nodded Nick M. “Er ist ein jämmerlich selbstgerechter Wichser.”
“S’one thing being miserable all year, but you can’t be a right grumpy sod at Christmas time. It’ll be a disaster from a career point of view.”
“I don’t need to worry about that, though.” insisted Bobbeh Lindsay. “My real life equivalent, Robert Lindsay, is amiable enough.”
“It’s too late to start being all post-modern in this fic, Mr Lindsay.” Nick T warned, wagging his finger at Lindsay. “You’re gonna be visited by three….. Bobbehs.”
“No.”
“Really. To teach you… the true meaning of Christmas and all that.”
“I think I’d rather not.” said Bobbeh Lindsay.
“….Well, tough. You need to lighten up, let your hair down, mate. Anyway, you can expect the first one, at one o’clock. Don’t look at me like that, I dunno why.”
“Couldn’t I take them all at once and get it over with?” hinted Lindsay.
“Hey, I don’t plan these things. Second one’s at two o’clock, the last one’s an hour later. Dunno why they bother, really.”
“Listen, I really must take issue with this impertinent…”
“Oi, don’t shoot the messenger!” protested Nick T, holding up his arms as best he could. “Bloody hell, Nick M, whatcha have to steal theses chains for? We’re gonna have to lug them all the way back to the bar now, and I don’t fancy being chained to you much. You can get up to what you like with Alex, don’t start doing it with me.”
Gathering up the heavy metal chains, Nick T unlocked the bedroom door. “Think we best use the front door this time, eh Nick? Come on. Merry Christmas, Mr Lindsay! Good luck!”
And with a wave, the two Nicks were gone. As the sound of clunking metal faded down the stairs, Bobbeh Lindsay settled back under the duvet, shaking his head in disbelief. His life had seemed to get more and more incredible lately, but this really was taking the chocolate digestive.
Strangely, this distraction seemed to have worked wonders in allowing his mind to forget his earlier unrest and drift off to sleep. The next thing he knew, he was waking up again; his sleepy eyelids opening to reveal that it was in fact still night but one hour had passed. As he looked up at his watch, Bobbeh Lindsay slowly became aware of what had woken him. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. A strange metallic tapping noise, very nearby. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.
Nervously, Lindsay’s eyes moved to the source of the noise…. A young Bobbeh stood by his bed, urgently tapping the bed frame to get his attention.
“Bobbeh Lindsay, Bobbeh Lindsay! Have I got the right place?”
~ End of Part One ~