\n<\/p>\n
I\u2019d only just gotten over the embarrassment when the props department called me in.<\/p>\n
\u201cKristian, we need to make a decision about which prosthesis to use,\u201d they said.<\/p>\n
Jesus, there\u2019s more than one?<\/em> In fact, there were two: one a slightly lighter shade of burnished oak complete with thick, dark, afro-curl pubes. Is someone having a joke?<\/em> I thought. Surely they\u2019d know by now that with a surname like Nairn I\u2019d be half Irish, half Scottish with a hue verging on Arctic blue. Thankfully, the one Paul now has in his hand is a closer match\u2014much paler but still not quite pale enough.<\/p>\n The moment I saw its size, though, I\u2019d said to Paul: \u201cI could use it as a fucking draft excluder!\u201d Sixteen inches of hard, weird plastic that looks like a hollowed-out dildo.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd it doesn\u2019t even match my coloring!\u201d I protested.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t worry, Kristian. Makeup will sort that. We\u2019ll match it to your skin tone once it\u2019s on,\u201d he explained.<\/p>\n The second time the prosthesis got an outing was not long after we started filming. I turned up at work to find the actor Richard Madden, who plays Robb Stark, dancing around the car park at the Paint Hall studios like a naughty goblin. He was gripping it with both hands and shaking it enthusiastically like a garden hose. Apparently, he\u2019d stolen it from the special effects department.<\/p>\n \u201cHoly God, look at the size of it!\u201d he was shouting to the small assembled crowd of assistant directors and runners, all pissing themselves laughing. \u201cThis is yours!\u201d he yelled to me as I walked over.<\/p>\n \u201cThanks, Richard,\u201d I smiled. I took it in the humor it was intended. And I\u2019ve gotten to know Richard better since then. I like him. He\u2019s a joker who never fails to make me laugh. But that morning when I looked at everyone\u2019s faces, they were laughing with<\/em> him, not at<\/em> him. Or that\u2019s how it seemed to me. I don\u2019t know if people will be as kind. I\u2019m dreading finding out. Really<\/em> dreading it.<\/p>\n The prosthesis is attached with a thin twine\u2014a kind of undignified G-string that secures around my back and bum before it\u2019s plaited in. Sometime down the line some poor sod in postproduction will have to airbrush that out, too. My arse cheeks will probably be in their face for hours. Not a thought I want to dwell on too long either.<\/p>\n Now a pot of glue and a paintbrush appear.<\/p>\n \u201cI thought it just needs plaiting in?\u201d I say to Paul worriedly. In the endless conversations I\u2019ve had about this prosthetic, no one has mentioned anything about glue.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s going to be on for a long time. It needs to be secure,\u201d Paul replies. I can tell by the way he\u2019s softened his voice that he\u2019s treading carefully. Right. Don\u2019t make a fuss, Kristian<\/em>, I think, but fuck me, it\u2019s painful. The glue gets applied in blobs that stubbornly pull at my pubic hair before it gets worked into the surrounding area. I need more Red Bull, and fast. Thankfully, a can has been delivered. It\u2019s the only thing so far I\u2019ve put my foot down over. I reached my limit with the canteen coffee, and catering have kindly begun stocking energy drinks for me. They\u2019ve nicknamed me \u201cthe Red Bull Guy.\u201d I\u2019m alternating sips with shoving a lukewarm bacon sandwich into my mouth.<\/p>\n With my pubic hair plaited and the glue applied it\u2019s now time for the painting of the prosthesis. This seems to take forever. From my vantage point, all I can see is the top of Paul\u2019s head and his brush and powder puff working away below. Periodically, he stands back with his hands on his hips for a good eyeful before rummaging around on the countertop for a different shade of foundation. Down he goes again. This is a day of indignity, get used to it, Kristian<\/em>, I think.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay, we\u2019re done. Ready to move to set.\u201d Paul finishes off with a dramatic curtsy and hands me back my dressing gown.<\/p>\n \u201cNot so bad, was it?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n \u201cErm . . . fine,\u201d I reply shakily.<\/p>\n Set. Shit. The time has come.<\/em><\/p>\n
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