January - always a lovely month

CHAPTER 4 –


It was all going well until the director stood up. “Stop a minute. John, you’ve got blood dripping out of the side of your mouth”.



I’d wanted to make an impression. There’s no point doing these things if you’re not going to make an impression, but frankly this wasn’t what I’d figured on. Still, “Stop a minute. John, you’ve got blood dripping out of the side of your mouth”? They weren’t going to forget me.



I’d been asked to go on one of those “The 100 Greatest…” TV shows about old Christmas presents that you can’t remember. You know, in the past I’ve always said that if I was ever asked I was going to say “No” to stuff like that because, well, you’ve got to draw the line somewhere. But then they did ask and… I talked to Jane and what can I tell you? Christmas is coming. Nothing was happening. I’ve got this proposal with my agent, a novel where everything that happens you see from the vantage point of a flea, but so far I haven’t had a bite. Nothing.



So anyway. I went to London to record this show, The 100 Greatest Bird Tables or whatever it was, and was staying with a friend. There I was, practicing my spontaneous responses when, without warning, my mouth exploded. I’ll spare you the details, but it was grief. It hurt like a bastard and, worse, one side of my face looked like Louis Armstrong in mid-solo.



Great. A good performance and I could become a regular on “The 100 Greatest…” series. But here I was, stuck in London, mouth howling like an air raid shelter, no dentist. Have you ever tried to get a dentist? It’s a fantastic system. You hand over the deeds to your house, they give you some antibiotics. It’s fine. No, really. You lie there and say “Ah” and sweat and by time the dentist says “OK, you can rinse out now” you could have had a small conservatory built.



I got an appointment OK.

“We’ve got a cancellation. Can you come in at 2.30?” the receptionist said.

“That’s the oldest… Do you say that to everyone?” I said.

“Sorry?” she said. “Can you make that?”



“Relax, you won’t feel a thing”. What am I going to say? My mouth is wedged open, there’s a suction thing gurgling away, cotton wool padding my cheeks and a light blinding my eyes. He took it out. A tooth the size of a gravestone. In one hour, I’m due at the studio and unless I want to do my piece in character as Don Corleone… it’s over.



It’s a grim thing, having a tooth taken out. It’s not something that happens every day. A bloke rips a part of your body out. What are you going to do? Go to The Body Shop and get a new bit? A bit of your body was there… and now it’s not.



He holds it up for me too look at, this bleeding symbol of my decay. It looked how I felt. He asked me if I was OK. Bastard.



Fully intending to make my excuses – it’d be rude just to not turn up and I couldn’t phone cos I couldn’t speak - I made my way down to the studio.

“Nah, nah. It’ll be alright. Looks fine,” said the director. “We’ll change the lighting a bit first”



Great. Now being lit like I’m Herman Munster. Fine. Don’t care. Do it. I am, if nothing else, a professional.



I got out of the club and into the daylight. I figured it would be OK. You emerge from a nightclub in the middle of the afternoon, people expect a bit of blood dripping out of the side of your mouth. The phone went. Jane. I answered it.

“How’s everything?”

“

“The hamster’s escaped. Are you coming home?”