The excitement comes to nothing, and people stand around chatting as the rain stops. Googling Vince Marino, I read a little of his history. The New Yorker has been growing a steady fan base for years. Starting out as a voiceover artist for adverts, he won theatre roles in London, Stratford and Broadway, eventually becoming British TV’s favourite private detective before dropping off everyone’s radar to nurse his terminally ill wife. When she died he stayed hidden in his London home. And then he createdCancelled.
We’re sheltered from the wind in this alley but it’s a typical October night. Unbelievably, the woman behind me is dressed in only a vest top, displaying the wordCancelledplastered across Vince’s face like a poster for a show that’s been junked. Catching me staring, she returns my attention. ‘Oh! You’re the one! What was it like being roasted?’ She puts her head slightly to one side in fake sympathy.
I shrug, mortified she witnessed my shame. ‘It was all a bit weird. Not sure I’ve processed it yet.’
‘I can imagine. Although at least there were no butt shots in your video. Some people have a lot more to be embarrassed about.’
‘You’ve seen the show before?’
‘A bunch of us come loads. Many of the regulars are ahead of us for his paw print.’
‘I can’t believe he does this every night. How did he find me online or know where I’d be sitting?’
She confidently fills me in. ‘The play’s on four nights a week. They asked you for your social profiles when you booked, right? And that disclaimer you had to sign? It’s so the producers can do the research. They go through people’s accounts till they find a tweet they can work with. Then they load it onto the house phone. Vince improvises a conversation with the chosen one, reacting to what they say before sending them back to their seat. The rest of the show is scripted.’
‘So, Troy, and all the other characters …’
‘… are trotted out every night. The only thing that changes is the person being roasted. That bit never gets old. I always tell the call centre I’m not on social media when I book the seat because I would actually die if he chose me. You were brave going up there.’
‘Had no choice. How do you know all this?’
‘There’s a Facebook group. I’m a mod. We’ve called ourselves the Vinos– short for Vince Marino obvs. He likes good wine, although not as much as he enjoys his bourbon.’
I look down and see a bottle in her hand. His fans bring him wine? I have more questions. ‘What if I hadn’t turned up tonight? My friend bailed unexpectedly. What if she had been chosen instead?’
‘There’s a backup plan. The producer is a stooge with a dummy account if anyone doesn’t show or turns out to be an old lady when they’re expecting a hairy biker. But most of the time it seems to work like a dream. Hey, Vince, over here!’
The queue surges dramatically as he appears at the stage door. His eyes burn like sparklers as he assesses the size of the crowd gathered to worship and adore him. Taking several strides towards the women at the front, he produces a silver pen from his pocket, clicks it, stretches out his hand and automatically signs two programmes. Caught up in the excitement I root around in my bag for something he can write on should he come my way. The only scrap of paper I have is a copy of my new leaflet.
Vince poses for four or five selfies with fans, before changing direction and bowling towards the woman in front of me. He scribbles on her programme and then takes two steps towards me. His eyes lock with mine once again and I freeze. He’s only the freakin’ Canceller, and he chose to cancel me! But there’s no spark of recognition, no mention of what happened earlier. Maybe one victim blends into the next when you’re banging out a performance four times a week? I instinctively thrust my leaflet into his palm and when he grabs my shoulders, I hold my breath. He spins me round and applies a light pressure to my back– I can feel the indent of his pen. I’m being used as a desk?
‘Hey, Vince!’ The pressure on my back falls away as he steps towards the woman I spoke to earlier.Cancelledisn’t splashed across her chest anymore as she’s whipped the T-shirt off altogether. Above her flesh-coloured bra, there’s a request in felt tip on her skin– ‘Sign here please!’ Unruffled by this turn of events, he pushes my leaflet into the pocket of his leather coat, lifts his pen and scrawls‘You are awesome, V.’ directly onto her boobs.
‘You are too,’ she says, her eyes welling up.
‘Agreed,’ he says, proud they’ve jointly nailed the art of awesomeness.
He signs three more programmes and thanks everyone for waiting for him. I reach forward and tap him on the shoulder, ‘Excuse me, Vince, you still have my …’ But I’m drowned out by someone else shouting his name as he’s swept away, towards a car. Taking my leaflet with him.
As I walk to the underground, taking care to avoid puddles and cracks, I think back to my Photoshop efforts and realise that, out of context, the strapline ‘Let me make you happy’ makes me sound like a prostitute.
Chapter 3
Next morning, Joe is quick to ask if the play was any good. I tell him the story and he’s so enthralled he almost drops his pitcher of milk. When I get to the part about the public roasting, he puts down both the cup and the jug and stares at me. ‘Sounds horrific. Were you traumatised? Why didn’t you text me?’
‘To be honest I was still processing it all when my head hit the pillow.’
‘I shouldn’t have let Strident talk you into going.’
Touched by his concern, I tell him not to worry. ‘I hated being on stage but was only really spooked when I thought he’d deleted my account. Imagine someone objecting to you so much they literally took you off Twitter.’
‘Hello, Donald Trump! And imagine the impact on your new business if he had. Mind you, I don’t think it would be an issue if someone deleted my accounts as my social media presence is laughable.’
‘That’s fine because we all do it for you.’ I tap on my phone, flip through my pics and produce a photo of last week’s coffee with a picture of an intricate flower in the froth. ‘My followers can’t get enough of this.’
‘Ah, you’re embarrassing me now.’ The skin around his eyes crinkles in appreciation, pushing a corrugated thrill through my body.
As no one else has appeared to claim his time and energy, I ask Joe if he’d mind me videoing him. ‘I think your skill and dedication would make a lot of my followers happy. Can you also walk them through what you’re doing or is that asking too much?’
