Simon Pegg - Nerd Do Well: A Small Boys Journey to Becoming a Big Kid

Although these acknowledgements relate specifically to the process of writing the book, there are a few more general thank yous I would like to express. Firstly, my mum, Gill, and my dad, John, for their endless encouragement and support over the years. It has been the foundation of everything I have achieved and a debt I can never repay. My wonderful wife, Maureen, for her understanding and willingness to be literally left holding the baby during the more intensive periods of writing this book. As always, I look forward to her thoughts the most. I should also give tribute to my sister, Katy, whose nerd credentials have often outstripped my own. Thanks for putting me on to all those great TV shows and being Robin to my Batman (I am of course talking about Carrie Kelly, the female Robin from The Dark Knight Returns ). My brothers, Michael and Steven, for allowing me to make films with their toys and break them in the process. It was more than worth it for Bogorof the Bad, Parts 1 and 2 (my unseen first features). My agent, Dawn Sedgwick, for looking after me with such tireless devotion and having a confidence in me that even I didnt have. Im not always the easiest person to motivate but her persistence in bringing out the best in me has never faltered and for that I am eternally grateful. Nods of thanks must also go to Alex Pudney and Nicola Mason Shakespeare who work by Dawns side, chasing me down with pressing matters as the FBI chase down elusive terrorists. My editor, Ben Dunn, at Century who has demonstrated a seemingly indestructible patience in dealing with me. His enthusiasm, understanding and belief in my capacity to finish and indeed start this venture have been remarkable in light of my infuriating indecision and tendency to procrastinate. Elsewhere on the third floor of the Random House building on the banks of the River Thames, Id like to thank Briony Nelder for looking after me so completely during the writing process and being someone with whom I could freely discuss the complexities of the final season of Lost . Katie Duce for assisting Ben in helping shape my somewhat shapeless train of thought into, of all things, an actual book. And Jack Fogg, not only for sounding like the alter ego of a Victorian superhero but for being part of the team that made me feel so welcome and, dare I say it, valued at Century. Thanks also go to Tony Kelly, the marvellously intuitive and gifted photographer, who I roped in for the cover shoot and who always makes things fun, and the great Simon Bisley for his spot-on rendition of me and Canterbury. And lastly, although their job has been to feature in this book rather than contribute to it, I would like to thank my dearest friends and closest collaborators for the material and, above all, the love. Michael Smiley, Edgar Wright, Jessica Hynes, Nira Park and of course, my inspiration and best friend, Nicholas John Frost.

The cave seemed to go on forever, a vast tectonic bubble receding to an infinity of shadow. Powerful spotlights lit various areas where trophies and keepsakes hinted at past adventure and an array of impressive vehicles gathered: an awesome assemblage of potential and kinetic energy. Elsewhere, the blackness folded in on itself, swirling into corners, endless, impenetrable, much like the mind of the man who sat at its flickering heart.

The hub was comprised of a central console, surrounded by various readouts and screens. Data from across the globe ticked into the mainframe to be displayed, analysed and evaluated by the figure sat in thoughtful repose amid the array. This was his lair, his base, the place he felt most relaxed, most centred, most at home; it was like the Bat Cave but with faster Wi-Fi.

Simon Pegg scanned the myriad infoscreens, searching, penetrating, squinting in a way that made him even more handsome. Across the feedbank, a dizzying strobe of information flickered before his, steel blue with a hint of rust, eyes. Stocks and shares rose and fell, disasters, wars, a cat attacking a baby on YouTube, an old woman ravaged by hunger holding out her hands in supplication to a faceless militia man, impassively pointing a rifle at her head.

Its not fair, Peggs bitter mumble cracked across his lips. That cat should be put down!

Theres a telephone call for you, sir, a metallic voice chirped over the intercom.

Jesus, Canterbury, Pegg yelped, cant you make a ding-dong noise or something? It really makes me jump when you just speak like that.

Im sorry, sir, apologised the faithful robotic butler, I didnt mean to startle you.

Dont worry about it, said Pegg, putting his feet up on the dashboard and pretending not to be freaked out. Who is it? Lord Black, I suppose, with another fiendish plot to bring about the end of the world.

No, sir, replied Canterbury patiently.

Good, huffed Pegg. I hate that twat.

Its your editor, sir. Ben from Century, replied the automaton gravely.

Holy shit, muttered Pegg darkly.

Shall I bring the phone down, sir? enquired Canterbury.

Cant you just patch it through? whined Pegg like a teenager who didnt want to go to the shops for his mum because he was about to have another wank.

No, sir, replied Canterbury. Its on your iPhone, which was down the side of the sofa in the drawing room.

I wondered where that was, said Pegg, brightening slightly. Bring it down.

Very well, sir, returned Canterbury, seemingly unaffected by Peggs erratic mood shifts.

Oh, and bring me a Coke Zero, said Pegg, signing off.

He scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes, knowing full well what Ben from Century wanted and worrying slightly that his editor would think his telecommunications system was rubbish. On one of the infoscreens another YouTube baby emitted a classic guff, firing a cloud of talc into the air from its freshly powdered anus. Pegg laughed hysterically for two minutes before his guffaws subsided and he wiped the tears from his eyes, thus missing CCTV footage of an armed robbery approximately two miles down the road. He eased his demeanour back into seriousness with a loud sigh, and then shook his head with a chuckle, remembering the cloud-farting baby.

DING-DONG, said Canterbury over the intercom.

FUCK! said Pegg, clutching his heart dramatically. I didnt mean say ding-dong, I meant get a thing that makes a ding-dong noise.

It seems to me, sir, reasoned Canterbury, trying not to sound patronising, that any noise I employ to alert you to my presence will sound without warning and give you a fright.

What do you want, Canterbury? growled Pegg.

Weve only got those Diet Cokes sir, the ones reserved for guests, replied his faithful mechanised friend.

Gak! retched Pegg, Everyone knows Diet Coke marketing specifically targets women and effeminates and I am neither.

There is regular Coke sir, offered Canterbury. The Ocado man delivered a six pack by mistake.

You allowed fatty Coke into this house? Pegg whispered, secretly pleased.

Canterbury said nothing.

I suppose it will have to do, huffed Pegg quickly, but check the order next time. Remember that whole Volvic/Evian debacle?

Peggs response was met with an impassive acknowledgement from his chamberlain and silence fell across the cave once more. Pegg felt a tinge of guilt in his gut and fingered the intercom.

Canterbury?

Nothing.

Come on, Canterbury, I know you can hear me, insisted Pegg. Its not like you can hang up, the com-links inside your head... Canterbury?

An electronic bell sounded to Peggs right, making him jump. The door to the elevator opened revealing Canterbury holding an iPhone and a Coke.