Chapter 65.5: Norton Panty-Virus

Chapter 65.5: Norton Panty-Virus

The London Studios, Central London. June 2011.

Pop-psychology coined the term ‘Peter Pan syndrome’. A phenomenon that pertains to people who’ve grown taller, grown older, but who willfully refuse to grow up. 

As I cocooned myself within the scratchy curtains backstage, playing hide-and-seek, I found myself trapped in the same boyhood bayou that had proverbially claimed Peter Pan himself. 

Although, chanting ‘I do believe in fairies! I do, I do!’ as Graham Norton and his attached camera crew searched for me was liable to switch the live feed into a lynching.

Bundled beneath his robe and wizard hat, he raced down the industrial corridor connecting to the main stage. Peeking out from a tiny slit I created between the green-screen tarp held in my fists, I spied as he came to a skidding halt in front of Emma and Rupert who were pretending to have a conversation as part of the skit we were putting on. “Ron, Hermione, there you are! Thank the Lord I found you - listen, I need your help. Tell me where Harry is! The muggles are after me and I need to borrow his cloak.” 

Rupert unsurely responded on cue. “… er, you do know those are just character we play, right? I’m Rupert.” He pointed next to him. “Emma.” Then he swivelled his head around to look for me. “And it’s not Harry, it’s B-”

Graham interrupted by urgently clapping his hands over his ears. “I can’t bear to hear it! They’ve already brainwashed you! I’ve got to escape before they get me too!” Brandishing the flowy part of his robe as if it was an old-timey vampire’s cape, Graham left the cameraman behind as he swept away in a whirlwind of cloth, and screamed at the top of his lungs. “Fly, you fools!”

My turn! I parted the drapes and dropped the green sheet. The camera smash cut to me as my cover fell to reveal me. Through a little bit of technical magic, the studio audience out front saw me appear from behind the superimposed image. 

Stepping over my discarded invisibility cloak, I cupped my palms around my mouth and indignantly hollered at our fleeing host. “Oi! That’s the wrong franchise!”

Emma imperiously perched her knuckles on her cocked hips and called back as well. “He needs to sort out his priorities!” 

All three of us looked at the panning lens circling us and trumpeted in tandem. “Let’s start the show!”

The camera cut as laughter roared from the crowd outside.

Theme music began thumping out of speakers as Graham ditched the prop paraphernalia and pranced onto his stage to raucous cheers. He waved them down to a manageable decibel so that he could get underway with his introductions. “Hello, hello! Good evening, everyone! Welcome to The Graham Norton Show! We have a fantastic show for you tonight. Yes, folks, it’s a magical evening because we are joined by not one, not two, but all three stars of Harry Potter!”

He held for applause, giving the three of us just enough room to line up along the stairs we’d been instructed to climb as per Graham’s prompt. 

I found my heel tapping as the show’s iconic bass line bounced, encouraging the audience to clap in rhythm; atmospherically building the bubbly anticipation. 

“Up first, we have the most beloved ginger in all the United Kingdom - standing redhead and shoulders above even the royals! Everyone, please welcome Rupert Grint!”

Rupert made his casual entrance with a lazy smile under his rumpled bangs. He waved with one hand while the other was stuffed in his pocket. Graham guided him to his seat on the curvy red sofa after a quick shake and greeting.

Keeping the momentum, he announced Emma next. “The brains of this entire operation - as well as she who’s conquered the hearts and minds of every young man across the world! Give it up, for Emma Watson!”

Proving that statement true (and then some), she fixed her posture, swanned up, and almost toppled backwards at the baritone bombardment. The geezer population up above went ape with a chorus of wolf whistles and ‘waheys’. Well used to that reaction by now, though, she remained demure. Graham and Emma greeted each other with both sides of their cheeks before she took her middle seat.

“And last, but definitely not least. Bringing up the rear, the man who knows no fear - even though he really, truly ought to! The one, the only! Bas Rhys!”

There wasn’t a need to psych myself up as the crowd went absolutely psycho. 

Rupert and Emma had caused waves, but my name resulted in a ripple effect that turned it tidal, as crescendoing catcalls clamoured for my catwalk. Their eagerness egged me on - not a hitch in my step at the fever pitch. Hurdling two steps at once, I burst forth and basked in the onslaught of oohs and aahs.

Call it my overactive imagination, but I swear the sound vibrations had my bells tinkering inside my trousers. 

It was only fair I returned their affections with equal aplomb. Alternately swinging each arm, I blew kisses to both the biddies in the bleachers and broadcasted it to the folks who’d smooch my pixelated lips later at home. 

High on my own supply of fairy dust, instead of courteously clasping Graham’s outstretched hand for a shake, I smacked it away. Choosing in its place to maul Graham with mock macking as I melodramatically tipped him over, pressed us ear to ear, and turned us away from the scandalously screeching spectators. 

Demonstrating why he was the host with the most, Graham immediately got with the program. 

He bent and raised his knee along my waist, while his fingers frantically scrambled across the back of my blazer. 

It took both Rupert and Emma muscling their way in between us to pry our pantomime apart. Though, my manhandling continued when I was dragged away by my collar and tossed onto my spot on the couch. 

Graham deliriously sprawled akimbo on his chair. The audio tech on set masterfully punctuated the moment by cutting off the intro song right at that climax. 

Fanning himself until the audience was wrangled quieter, he spoke when he knew the mics might actually register his voice. “I feel…drunk.”

“It’d be rude to leave you without company, then.” Snagging the complimentary glass of booze cleverly organised for every guest of the show, I raised a toast. “Chin-chin!” Unhinging mine, I poured it down the hatch. 

In the periphery, Rupert reached out for the two other flutes and handed one to Emma. 

She initially resisted. “Someone’s got to keep their head on straight. I think there’s been sufficient social lubrication.”

Rupert insisted and forced her to grip. “Consider it liquid courage. We’re gonna need it.” 

“… Can’t argue with that logic.” They clinked cups, and the viewers cheered for them.

–

Once the opening banter had run its course, Graham began tackling the interview with single-minded focus. “Now that my double vision’s finally gone, we can properly get you in our sights.” He beckoned the audience. “Don’t they look splendid?” They applauded. “Good, now boo them!” They heeded that request, too. “You’ve received enough adulation of late, so I thought it best to deflate your egos a bit.” 

Emma was quick to defend herself. “I know we’ve come a long way, but I wouldn’t consider us too far gone, Graham.” 

“Is that right?” Apparently, she’d sprung whatever trap he’d set. “Let me be the judge of that.” Twirling in his swervy chair, he grabbed his mouse and brought up the slides on his monitor. Emma’s face cropped up; heavily made-up and artificially posed to exude sensuality for whichever one of her luxury brand endorsement this poster was. “Isn’t she lovely? Fashionista supreme! Hard to believe these are the same person, hm?”

Then he unceremoniously shifted over to the next slide. I peeped a much younger version of Emma in her dowdy grey dress clashing horribly with her far more fabulous feather boa and gold clutch combo from the very first Potter premiere. 

A lot of awws cooed out, which only made Emma suffer greater self consciousness. “No! I was cute! My outfit was perfectly chic for the era.” 

She leaned over, almost across my lap as she flailed her arms at the screen as if trying to shield herself from the embarrassment. I couldn’t resist whispering - low enough for only her ears - “The hairdo’s still as unruly in the mornings, by the way. You’ve not changed that mmph-!” 

My point was further solidified when she clamped a sweaty palm over my mouth. “Don’t you start!”

Graham cruelly turned a blind eye to my Guantanamo waterboarding session and honed in on a thoroughly amused Rupert. “Ignore them. They’ve always been like this. Actively at each other’s throats since probably as far as the second film, I reckon.” 

Fair enough observation on his part. Sometimes she was soothing my lymphs, while sometimes she was going straight for the jugular. But, “hey! It’s not as if I didn’t stick my neck out for you, either.”

“Yeah?” Rupert challenged. “Name one example.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of Rupert from the same night, would you?” Seeing as I had the resource at hand, I asked Graham to help me exhibit evidence.

Who happily clicked on to the next slide. “Of course I do!” 

Out popped a picture of Rupert swaggering in the snazzy spare suit Cadbury had dressed him in. “Remind me again, whose threads were those?”

“Yours…”

“And was this the last time?”

“Don’t rub it in, mate.”

“Boys, please!” Graham intercepted. “This is a talk show. If you’re going to have a tiff, at least provide vital context.” 

Rupert proceeded to give the skinny. “My mum made the mistake of letting me dress myself in a ratty jumper. I was woefully out of place and Bas let me borrow his clothes. The trend only continued when he nudged us into his merch arrangement with Uniqlo, too.” 

“Ah! How could I possibly forget Bas’ own history with apparel?” Back again to his monitor. “Here he is, dressed to the nines at the Christmas launch of Love Actually. Well accessorized, too. Don’t miss the antlers or the models hanging off him.” Graham sequentially skipped through a range of my folio fashion photos. “Here he is as a street racer. Oh-! Here’s a fan favourite, goth himbo Bas. Soldier Bas. And who could forget him buff in the buff?”

The last shot of me from the end of my old Uniqlo commercial compelled a shrill fweet-fweeoo! From the gallery.

“Good noise!” Graham whipped and pointed towards the corner it came from. “But don’t encourage him. Bas has no qualms going crossing boundaries; however, I’d prefer to keep my show on the air so we’ll skip to the present. We must talk about the elephant in the room.”

I conspicuously stared at my crotch. “Thanks.”

Emma punched me. “As if!” Clearly, the booze had already addled her inhibitions. Silver lining, though, at least we now knew who to bet on in a bar fight.

“No. I’m talking about what’s on the tip of every tongue these days. Harry Potter. Harry Potter.” He took a dramatic breath. “Harry Potter! There isn’t a soul anywhere who isn’t positively hooked; how does one deal with that level of fame?” 

“It’s certainly a trip, that’s for sure. Bordering on obsession much of the time.”

Emma rushed to add on to Rupert’s comment. “Those awful paparazzi deserve the blame for that. I can’t stand them! Relentlessly stoking fires and inflaming public opinion.”

Before she could go on a full tirade, I stoppered the door with my foot so that none of Emma’s toes started tickling her tonsils. 

In all honesty, it was also a topic I viscerally understood. Insight I could draw from my personal experience across the barricade. Once upon a time, I was them. “We always try to keep in mind how much the story itself matters to everyone. Plus, I think what keeps us sincerely humble is never taking our lives for granted, you know? Any number of our fans would easily chop off their arms to be in the extremely lucky position we’re in today. If the price for that is getting snooped on?” I shrugged at the obvious answer in a rare bout of seriousness.

I had a horrifically high threshold for public humiliation - revelled in it, truthfully. Yet Emma and Rupert’s gobsmacked gawking had me squirming on the settee until the redness flowed up my neck and splotched my face. Determinedly evading their gaze, I instead zoned in on the empty cup of scotch I’d guzzled. 

Thank you, almighty alcohol, for giving me a valid excuse for my flush. 

Graham also earned a spot on my list of gratitude when he cut the tension with a facetious scoff. “Ugh! It should be illegal to be superstars yet so down to earth at the same time. Doesn’t that just make you want to hate them, even if you physically can’t? I need a break.”

Standing up, our host sauntered across his stage towards the secondary platform to segue into the next portion of the show. A band had silently assembled themselves during our interview so far. 

“Our musical guest for the evening is a young man who’s only recently debuted, and in that brief span has reigned at the top of the charts. Ladies and gentlemen, experience the musical stylings of Ed Sheeran and his hit single, the A team!”

–

“Mate, that was brilliant! Right up my alley.” Loud applause capped the strum of his last note. Rupert was particularly taken with Sheeran; they bumped fists as soon as Graham invited the singer onto the couch. 

Since he’d successfully diverted attention away from me, I decided to reward him. “Grint, why don’t you play him in the music video for one of his songs?”

“I’m game, if you are.” Rupert startled Sheeran with his easy acceptance.

“Oh, fuck off!” For those unaware, that’s an emphatic British ‘yes, please’. 

With the both of them together, this sofa was now officially sponsored by Wendy’s. 

“And they say gingers have no souls.” Graham quipped. “Another rising star joins the cast - as if the bright futures here weren’t blinding enough. Therefore, if our eyes are destined to bleed, no one’ll notice if I add a bit more red to this tapestry.”

“Can I pull the lever?” I greedily eyed the prop switch that had been plonked next to me during the song. 

“Depends how fast you want to get off.” Graham’s loaded riposte made me feel like a quick shot as he rang in the final section of his show. “Red chair stories, everybody!”

His little TV screen flickered on again, showcasing a young woman sat on a cheap red wingback. “Hi, I’m Lisa from Newcastle.”

“Hello Lisa from Newcastle. What have you got for us today?”

Her Geordie accent would’ve made her incomprehensible if it weren’t for her fat lip fillers slowing her cadence. “Well, it goes like vis: few weeks back I caught my man, or wha’ever, shaggin’ some other gurl.”

“Hot start.” Graham rapidly nodded his head, with that eyebrow-raising frown you get when you’re genuinely impressed.

Bearing the brunt of a stranger’s cringe, however, was beyond my endurance. TMI, time to go bye-bye.

A claw locked me in place. “I’ll rip your arm off if you take this away from me.” Emma was totally invested. “Go ahead, Lisa. Continue.”

“Right, like, so he begged and begged me not to bin him. Said he’d never do it again. It didn’t mean anyfing. It was a mistake, yada yada. So I says, only way I lets him back into my heart is if we make fings even.” She dipped into her pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a hotel key fob. “Hence, here I have the manifestation of my hall pass.”

“For the uninitiated, she means she has an allowance to sleep with someone besides her boyfriend without repercussions.” Graham helpfully explained to Emma who oh’d in astonishment.

“Vats pretty much the whole story. I know there isn’t a satisfying finish, which is why I’m hoping Bas will give me one. What d’you say? Free tonight?” 

Now, suddenly, I was the one keenly leaning forward in interest. Her fake tan was a tad sorry, but her DSLs more than made up for it. “Just to clarify, your boyfriend’s not gonna be wanking while hiding in the cupboards, is he?”

“Pull it!” 

I purposely misinterpreted Emma’s demand. “Too risky. I’d rather use a condom.” 

Cold-blooded reptile that she was, Emma snapped at me and the lever, too. The chair tipped back, Lisa flipped over, and the floor swallowed her whole. 

The whole gag was played for laughs - the stands seemed to agree. Yet, nary a couple years ago, the reaction to her proposition would’ve undoubtedly been met with concerned grumbling. 

Leaving Neverland wasn’t meant to be easy, but I’d accomplished is, regardless

I wasn’t a lost boy anymore.