Robbie Coltrane and Me
©  2004 by P.B. Ryter
 

(Robbie Coltrane and Me is entirely fictional.)
 
 

I was a writer in the doldrums in Southern California. Financially solvent yet artistically hungry, I was bummed at the thought of proposing yet another sitcom. If I had to write another show about baby boomer lawyers in love or white bread GenX'ers, I'd go insane. 

Southern California society seemed surreal. Quest for physical perfection was obsessive; on size-eight bodies women might soon have breasts the size of beach balls; men had their implants, and failing that, bought Dodge Vipers. Botox took away the natural expressiveness of the face; Scorsese announced his disinclination to hire the botoxed. The situation would make an interesting sci-fi horror flick, I thought: zombified Barbies and Kens, scarily vacant-eyed and lurching, speaking in empty monotone.

My imagination working overtime, I took refuge in my condo. I closed the mini-blinds and sat on the sofa. I clicked on the tube. I revisited the Arts and Entertainment Channel, BBC America, and public broadcasting stations. I watched repeats. This stuff rocked! Chef!  Prime Suspect. Cracker. 

I craved witty conversation and rainy days; double-decker buses and people driving on the wrong side of the road; people calling me luv and bird. 

Intermittently flight-phobic and landlocked in America, I'd formulated questions about alleged British idiosyncracies. Was it true what they said about traditional British cuisine? Was breakfast really the best meal of the day? Did they have to call fast food ‘take-away'? Must food servers nosily inquire of single diners ‘On your own'? Did the UK really require a license to own and operate a television set? Were British prisons full of television licensing law offenders who bragged of their bad-ass raps?

A compulsive online researcher, I signed on to Generica Online. The main screen was typically peopled with almost indistinguishable blondes/blonds. Many seemed to be pop singers or actors of some kind. I accessed Google and typed in search keywords. ‘UK arts crime film events culture' produced 25,100 sites. I scrolled, accessed bfi.org and read:

'Welcome to a major new festival of crime films and literature  at the National Film Theatre in London, offering three days of exciting film previews, retrospectives and special TV events, as well as a unique convention open to the public featuring some of the greatest crime writers from around the world. Over the course of the festival you'll have the opportunity to meet and listen to a wide range of writers as they discuss their involvement with film and TV and other key aspects of crime writing.

International guests include Morgan Freeman, star of our Opening Night Gala Under Suspicion, as well as Randall Craig (ex Lull Street Blues screenwriter), Yvette Waltman, Wilson Lecter (creator of Inspector Muddyman) and acclaimed novelist Dennell Lohan amongst others.

Crime Scene: Literary Events 
A rare opportunity to hear acclaimed crime writers  discuss their work with each other and the audience. Access to these events is  only with a weekend or day  Crime Scene pass. 
            Friday 14th July
              Saturday 15th July
              Sunday 16th July 

              NFT1

              11.30-11.45
              Welcome
              Maxim Jakubowski, Festival Directors, welcome the delegates and preview the programmes . . . ' 

Maxim Jakubowski. I could dig it. He seemed in a way an international man of mystery. In an age of infinite internet drivel he subversively had no personal website. Film aficionado. Columnist. Author. Master anthologist: his novels and diverse anthologies were cutting-edge. He was clearly onto something, and it wasn't velcro. 

I checked Priceline for airline tickets.

It was at  the National Film Theatre's Crime Scene Event that I met actor Robbie Coltrane. I'd been a fan since seeing him as forensic psychologist Eddie Fitzgerald in Cracker. He was meant to play Fitz; McGovern's words were meant to spring from his lips. In my film-obsessed mind, Robbie and Fitz became one. The wit. The brilliance. The depth. The darkness. The excesses . . . he was a man after my own heart and he stole it via celluloid before he touched me in the flesh. The memories endure . . . 

Under Suspicion flickered."Your eyes turned down and to the left. That's what liars do." Freeman and Hackman sizzled in the dramatic stage play of a film. Layers and secrets and lies were brilliantly revealed in a mind-fuck of unpredictability.

"Whit a bleedin' boorichie ay guff! I've hud better entertainment playin' shadaw puppets!" 

I knew that voice and ‘tude. Could it be?

Heads turned. "What did he seay?"

"Um, quite. Would someone ring security?" 

Actor Robbie Coltrane was escorted out, under protest. "Easy thaur, ye frickin' wankers! "

I hoofed it out to Belvedere. Robbie was pacing and muttering in the rain. Witty conversation AND rain. It made me wet. 

I needed an icebreaker. "Beastly weather, isn't it?" 

"Not too terrible . . . " His heavy Scottish accent had somewhat dissipated. He gave me the once-over through dark, intense, narrowed eyes.

"Where can a woman find a drink around here?"

The Cock & Bull was conveniently located. And open. I liked that in a pub. It screamed atmosphere, from its carved wooden bar to its embossed metal ceilings to its walls layered with memorabilia. Years of smoke, brew, and cuisine had left their molecular debris. I was breathing Britannia, acquiring Anglophilism through my cells and pores. This surely beat some of the sterile bars of Southern California. I recalled Bar! It was all white with flourescent lighting and ferns.

Robbie and I settled into a booth with our pints of Guinness.

"Mr. Coltrane, that was quite a scene back there."

"Call me Robbie. And what's your name again, lass . . . ?"

"I'm Lucy. Robbie, I loved you in Cracker! What dialogue. What energy! Your character is non-politically correct. He's vulnerable. I especially liked the first five or six serials . . . "

"Went downhill after that, didn't it?" 

"Well, yes, but it's often difficult or impossible to maintain such quality. In any case, you had a good run."

"Hmm. So what do you do for a living, girl? Are you in entertainment?"

"I'm a writer."

"Ah. A scribbler." He smiled.
 

Robbie's flat was casually decorated. Comfortable. His front room boasted a king sized bed, recliner chair, bookshelves and an entertainment center.

"Are you going to interrogate me? Harangue me? Provoke me? Pelt me with philosophy tomes?" I teased him.

He smiled."We'll see, Lucy. We'll see." He took a seat on the bed. "Don't be shy, Lucy, have a seat." I dropped my purse to the floor. My sweater and skirt were damp from a light rain, releasing aromatics of  pub smoke, food, and Opium perfume. 

Robbie sat mid point on the side of the bed. I climbed into his lap and wrapped my right arm around his shoulder and neck.

"Name?" he asked. 

"You damn well know my name. My case. You've seen the file."

"Do you have a nickname, lass?"

"No. And don't call me lass." 

"Edith . . . why did you do it?" 

"I didn't do it."

"Edith, it's completely understandable . . . a woman such as yourself. You felt rage. You acted out. Perhaps you didn't intend to kill . . . " 

"You think you're handling me, don't you? Do you realize how irritating that is?" 

"Rage is primal, Edith. Our hands sometimes ache to ensconce a human throat. We all have our breaking points. The idiosyncratic things that set us off. The unexpected responses to given situations . . . tell me what happened, Edith. I'm a professionaI. I'll understand."

"I don't know what happened exactly . . . I remember that I'd had a hard day at work that day. I got home and rushed to get ready for a date with Ethan. He arrived. We had a drink and chatted."

"Yes, go on . . ."

"I asked him ‘Do you think this dress makes me look fat?' That's all I remember . . . "

Robbie began to shake with laughter. I laughed and held on, relaxing into his big energy, his comfort. He lay back. Lifting my skirt above my panty-less chia pet, I sat astride. My silk thigh-highs rubbed the sides of his slacks. He looked up at me, a quizzical expression in his dark eyes. He reached down, unzipped his fly, and set free his monster. It stood alert between his belly and thighs; it stood alert between my lotus lips; it moved between my love muscles. His hands grasped my hips; I was a fuck puppet, quickly propelled up then brought down upon him. His pace and hardness drove  me to orgasm; as he came he held me tightly to him. We undressed and ate pizza in bed. It was messy, but we didn't care. 

"Tell me a story." I said.

"Later, girl. Let's sleep now, shall we?" He smiled.

Entangled, enveloped, we slept. 
 
 

"What does a woman have to do to get breakfast around here?"

"French toast. How'd that be?"

"Fine. Assuming that you'll be the one cooking it."

"It's a specialty of mine."

In the kitchen I sat at the table and watched Robbie prepare to cook. His back to me, he scavenged and jostled ingredients, bowls and pans, and provided a commentary. 

"Everyone thinks they can make French toast. It ain't necessarily so, Lucy."

"Robbie, would you do me a favor?"

"What is it you want, girl?"

I blushed. "Could you use your Scottish accent for me? I really enjoy it." Grinning, I wondered if I appeared demented. 

He smiled. "Eh secrit is eh thickness ay eh breid, eh ratio ay milk tae egg an eh vanilla." 

"Really? "

"Thaur ur lots ay ways tae serve thes. Mah favoorite is wi' a sprinklin' ay lemon ur lime ginger, 'en dusted up wi' icin' sugar. Ye coods pit maple syrup oan eh test an' serve wi' crisp bacon, ur top it wi' tois fried ur poached eggs an' a sprinklin' ay grated cheese."

Robbie flipped a skillet onto a burner and preheated oil and butter. As it sizzled he thickly sliced a loaf, whipped milk, eggs, salt, and vanilla, and began to sing.

"Gie it frae 'at scullery ain rattle those pots an' pans! 
Git it frae 'at scullery ain rattle those pots an' pans. 
Weel, roll mah breakfest, 'cause aam a hungry cheil.
I said shake rattle an' roll, 
I said shake rattle an' roll, 
I said shake rattle an' roll, 
I said shake rattle an' roll! "

A kitchen tornado, a dancing chef, he popped the bread slices into the milky egg mixture and turned them over, coating them. He dropped the dripping bread pieces into the sizzling pan. He was a natural.

"Yoo ne'er dae nothin' tae sae yer doggain sool. 
Wearin' those dresses, yoor hair dain up sae reit
Wearin' those dresses, yoor hair dain up sae right; 
Yoo swatch sae warm, but yer heart is braw as ice. 
I said shake rattle an' roll . . . 
I'm like a one-eyed moggie, peepin' in a sea-fuid stair,
I'm like a one-eyed moggie, peepin' in a sea-fuid store; 
I can swatch at ye, till ye dinnae loove me nae mair 
I believe yoo're doin' me wrang ain noo Ah ken,
I believe yoo're doin' me wrang ain noo Ah know; 
The mair Ah wark, the faster mah bawbees goes. 
I said shake rattle an' roll . . . " 

The weekend flew as we ate French toast, watched movies, strolled to the Cock & Bull and back, and rocked his king-sized bed. I'll always remember our time together. Robbie Coltrane and me . . . 

Back in Southern California, the sun seemed excessively bright; the homes and lawns seemed surreally kept, free of disorder and activity. In my condo I didn't bother to open the blinds.  My message machine was full. "Luuuucceeeee . . . where are you? Whatcha GOT for me? We're on a schedule here. Tick, tick!" 

My newly proposed sitcom Lawyers and Disorders was a go. Torts and Tarts also had a taker.

I sighed, sat on the sofa, and turned on the tube. I clicked onto BBC America and perused the scene. In a restaurant, the beautiful flame-haired officer Penhaligon dumped a pitcher of ice-water onto Eddie Fitzgerald's head.

"Anglo-Saxon foreplay. Go up to my bedroom, my dear. If I'm not up in half an hour, get along without me." Fitz quipped. I sighed.
 
 

Sources/Credits