level 8
LJ: http://cumberbatchfans.livejournal.com/222424.html
原文：http://swashbuckled.wordpress.com/2011/05/16/no-shit-sherlock/
2011年05月17日 23点05分
level 8
level 8
No shit Sherlock
May 16, 2011 by swashbuckled
He’s had a haircut, I thought of the young gym manager handling someone’s query at the reception desk. “Hello mate,” I said, bleeping my membership card under the scanner to unlock the door, not commenting on his haircut. He replied in kind and I flicked a glance over my shoulder at his customer, just as the customer looked up from his reception desk administration towards me.
Millions have been snared by the soulful eyes of Benedict Cumberbatch, from the stage, screen, magazines and newspapers. He’s especially great for the page, almost naturally 3D, and is this week vying with Dr Who on the Radio Times cover. He’s unmistakeable. And seeing him there wasn’t entirely out of context as I’d just read an excited tweet from a writer of the Sherlock series Cumberbatch was in town to shoot: Gatiss or Moffat, I couldn’t remember which.
Shit it’s him, I thought, as we both looked away. Thought he’d have had a better hotel.
I wearily hauled myself into the changing room with the usual shame that comes from visiting the place without doing any sort of workout. Tired from a family weekend involving entertaining children and charming old people, I just wanted a steam, sauna and maybe a soak.
As I began to unrobe, he wafted into the otherwise empty changing room behind me, radiating the easy grace and sturdy confidence of someone well-used to commanding attention.
Publicly faced with celebrity, you’re never quite sure whether to engage or just let them get on with what they’re doing, not bother them. I’m sure many females would have happily traded position with me at that moment and simply watched, entranced by his being. (If it had been a female actor with similar appeal I would have been completely paralysed, before getting ejected from the female changing room). But because this was the sort of setting – empty gym changing room, Sunday evening – when it was natural to exchange a few civil words with anyone, I chanced conversation.
2011年05月17日 23点05分
3
May 16, 2011 by swashbuckled
He’s had a haircut, I thought of the young gym manager handling someone’s query at the reception desk. “Hello mate,” I said, bleeping my membership card under the scanner to unlock the door, not commenting on his haircut. He replied in kind and I flicked a glance over my shoulder at his customer, just as the customer looked up from his reception desk administration towards me.
Millions have been snared by the soulful eyes of Benedict Cumberbatch, from the stage, screen, magazines and newspapers. He’s especially great for the page, almost naturally 3D, and is this week vying with Dr Who on the Radio Times cover. He’s unmistakeable. And seeing him there wasn’t entirely out of context as I’d just read an excited tweet from a writer of the Sherlock series Cumberbatch was in town to shoot: Gatiss or Moffat, I couldn’t remember which.
Shit it’s him, I thought, as we both looked away. Thought he’d have had a better hotel.
I wearily hauled myself into the changing room with the usual shame that comes from visiting the place without doing any sort of workout. Tired from a family weekend involving entertaining children and charming old people, I just wanted a steam, sauna and maybe a soak.
As I began to unrobe, he wafted into the otherwise empty changing room behind me, radiating the easy grace and sturdy confidence of someone well-used to commanding attention.
Publicly faced with celebrity, you’re never quite sure whether to engage or just let them get on with what they’re doing, not bother them. I’m sure many females would have happily traded position with me at that moment and simply watched, entranced by his being. (If it had been a female actor with similar appeal I would have been completely paralysed, before getting ejected from the female changing room). But because this was the sort of setting – empty gym changing room, Sunday evening – when it was natural to exchange a few civil words with anyone, I chanced conversation.
level 8
“Filming starts tomorrow, right? I saw one of the writers’ 推 just now.”
“Oh he’s been tweeting, has he?”
There ensued a few minutes debate about 推, only broken when he realised he didn’t have a pound coin needed for the locker and I offered him one. He declined: “God no, it’ll be fine. There’s nothing of value in there anyway.” Really?! I thought. Selling his mobile phone to a tabloid fleetingly scurried through my brain.
The chat even continued while he took a piss. It was clear he had no time for 推 and couldn’t see how others could literally have the time for it. And I could understand why it holds no appeal or necessity for him: a widely admired, successful young man with an instant audience and network. However, I tried to persuade him that there are many others who really do have the time, in fact far too much of it. There are others not blessed with a network or audience so immediate. On top of this, it serves all kinds of purposes in business and socially. I wanted to transmit this without giving a strong impression that I was the kind of tragic needy prick he sneered at, which I suspected I was.
“Have a good swim,” he said, leaving the changing room before me, his 推 antipathy unshaken. Again I felt guilty that I wasn’t planning on swimming, or doing anything that required exertion. Hampered by an aching lower back I even felt slow at changing into swimming shorts, then doubled back for a piss before heading out to the steam room.
After several minutes of solitary steaming, a heavy breathing Cumberbatch entered the small space. I wasn’t sure if he was disappointed to see me: oh, not him again. Don’t talk to me, so I showed no sign of recognition for a couple of minutes. He’d just done his lengths in the pool and was glugging from a water bottle.
Ah, bollocks, I thought. “Good scripts?” I asked. Still recovering regular breathing and taking in water, he nodded, possibly not wanting the conversation. “Very good,” he said, “less establishing was needed so they’re quite different. Going to the sauna,” he added quickly. “See you in a bit.” He stood and left.
2011年05月17日 23点05分
4
“Oh he’s been tweeting, has he?”
There ensued a few minutes debate about 推, only broken when he realised he didn’t have a pound coin needed for the locker and I offered him one. He declined: “God no, it’ll be fine. There’s nothing of value in there anyway.” Really?! I thought. Selling his mobile phone to a tabloid fleetingly scurried through my brain.
The chat even continued while he took a piss. It was clear he had no time for 推 and couldn’t see how others could literally have the time for it. And I could understand why it holds no appeal or necessity for him: a widely admired, successful young man with an instant audience and network. However, I tried to persuade him that there are many others who really do have the time, in fact far too much of it. There are others not blessed with a network or audience so immediate. On top of this, it serves all kinds of purposes in business and socially. I wanted to transmit this without giving a strong impression that I was the kind of tragic needy prick he sneered at, which I suspected I was.
“Have a good swim,” he said, leaving the changing room before me, his 推 antipathy unshaken. Again I felt guilty that I wasn’t planning on swimming, or doing anything that required exertion. Hampered by an aching lower back I even felt slow at changing into swimming shorts, then doubled back for a piss before heading out to the steam room.
After several minutes of solitary steaming, a heavy breathing Cumberbatch entered the small space. I wasn’t sure if he was disappointed to see me: oh, not him again. Don’t talk to me, so I showed no sign of recognition for a couple of minutes. He’d just done his lengths in the pool and was glugging from a water bottle.
Ah, bollocks, I thought. “Good scripts?” I asked. Still recovering regular breathing and taking in water, he nodded, possibly not wanting the conversation. “Very good,” he said, “less establishing was needed so they’re quite different. Going to the sauna,” he added quickly. “See you in a bit.” He stood and left.
level 8
This left me with a dilemma because the sauna was my next planned stop too, but I didn’t want him to think I was stalking him. I gave it a few minutes.
Hell, I wasn’t going to be guilt-tripped into not taking a sauna by Benedict Cumberbatch.
I walked the few yards, opened the door, was greeted by the warm blast, and sat down. It was empty except for him and I did begin to feel like a stalker. He probably hates me now, I thought. I won’t say anything else. Instead I stared blankly at the floor like people do in saunas.
“This your local gym then?” he asked. Quickly followed by “lived around here long?” and “what do you do?” **** Ben, I’m an aimless freelance nobody with various online identities because I’m a spineless lonely man protecting a boring but necessary professional identity. Let’s not talk about that. You’re an actor at the top of his game who’s short skip away from Hollywood, if you want it. That’s a bit more interesting.
I didn’t actually say that, of course. By way of compromise I steered discussion onto areas of London we were both familiar with, the things Cardiff and Wales has to offer. He shared a dash of family history.
There was a brief but comfortable pause.
I expressed my guilt at going to the gym without doing any work. He said I should swim, just a few lengths to get the heart pumping. I didn’t impose the story of my dodgy swimmer’s ear. He’d just done thirty lengths, really fast and really badly, but it was enough. It was true, the naturally neon Cumberbatch face was glowing even more. I could well imagine him doing more meditative exercise too: yoga, pilates, or Tai Chi.
Rising to leave, he said that regular exercise was good because the filming could get really boring at times; lots of hanging around on set, just as bad as an office job. I spluttered at that, told him I didn’t buying that at all. His expression conceded that it was an unfair comparison and we bid each other goodbye for the last time.
He was replaced in the sauna by two local guys, some distance apart in age but joined by their love of Cardiff City Football Club. We discussed the club’s PlayOff chances and the decapitation of the British holidaymaker in Tenerife and the younger man threatened to chop someone’s ****in head off if Cardiff lost to Swansea in the final.
2011年05月17日 23点05分
5
Hell, I wasn’t going to be guilt-tripped into not taking a sauna by Benedict Cumberbatch.
I walked the few yards, opened the door, was greeted by the warm blast, and sat down. It was empty except for him and I did begin to feel like a stalker. He probably hates me now, I thought. I won’t say anything else. Instead I stared blankly at the floor like people do in saunas.
“This your local gym then?” he asked. Quickly followed by “lived around here long?” and “what do you do?” **** Ben, I’m an aimless freelance nobody with various online identities because I’m a spineless lonely man protecting a boring but necessary professional identity. Let’s not talk about that. You’re an actor at the top of his game who’s short skip away from Hollywood, if you want it. That’s a bit more interesting.
I didn’t actually say that, of course. By way of compromise I steered discussion onto areas of London we were both familiar with, the things Cardiff and Wales has to offer. He shared a dash of family history.
There was a brief but comfortable pause.
I expressed my guilt at going to the gym without doing any work. He said I should swim, just a few lengths to get the heart pumping. I didn’t impose the story of my dodgy swimmer’s ear. He’d just done thirty lengths, really fast and really badly, but it was enough. It was true, the naturally neon Cumberbatch face was glowing even more. I could well imagine him doing more meditative exercise too: yoga, pilates, or Tai Chi.
Rising to leave, he said that regular exercise was good because the filming could get really boring at times; lots of hanging around on set, just as bad as an office job. I spluttered at that, told him I didn’t buying that at all. His expression conceded that it was an unfair comparison and we bid each other goodbye for the last time.
He was replaced in the sauna by two local guys, some distance apart in age but joined by their love of Cardiff City Football Club. We discussed the club’s PlayOff chances and the decapitation of the British holidaymaker in Tenerife and the younger man threatened to chop someone’s ****in head off if Cardiff lost to Swansea in the final.
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