So the doc's peering up my nose with a long-handled instrument shoved up there.
I say doc, perhaps one size smaller?
"Mm-hmmm, hmmmmm, mmmmyuuuurrsss. It does seem a little inflamed. Any trauma over the past few years?"
"Well, my grown up kids are still living at home."
"I mean in your nose."
"Oh, ah. Haha of course. No, can't think of any"
"Are you sure? Your septum looks a little wonky?"
(Wonky. That's a medical term is it? Do you actually have a license?)
Anyway, the doc gives me some cream and off I go, and halfway home, I stop dead and slap myself in the face, which I instantly regret, the nasal area still being a little tender, having had a torpedo from a Typhoon class nuclear submarine inserted up it recently.
And I am instantly back outside the Arsenal v Twente football match a few years ago. As usual, I left about 5 minutes before the end to beat the queue at the tube station, as any self-respecting insipid football fan worth his salt would do. I am, quite literally, a fair weather fan. I won't go to a match if it's cold. Or raining. Or later than 3.00pm on a Saturday. Or during the week. Or if it clashes with a Louise Borgeois retrospective at the Tate Modern. Or if I can't be bothered.
Hey this is for the Arsenal - Liverpool match this afternoon. Aren't you going?
No I couldn't possibly: my tailor is due any moment
Anyway, I'm nearing the station, head up, dodging through the crowds, almost running, determined to beat the station queue. Trip over a bloody crash barrier and my forward momentum takes me sailing into the tarmac, but fortunately my fall is broken by my face. The crowds very thoughtfully step over my prone body, and I try to get up. I can feel blood trickling down my face from somewhere and plopping on to the road in big dollops. A very nice lady Plod helps me to my feet. I am aware of her walkie talkie…”casualty outside Arsenal Tube, Male, 50, facial injuries…”
The ambulance arrives and because I’ve thumped my head, takes me to the hospital, where I am briefly examined by a doctor who seems extremely knowledgeable for a twelve year old.
Now this won't hurt a bit...
“Any nausea?”
“Only last Saturday, when we lost to Fulham”
“Vomiting?”
“No”
“Headache?”
“What do you think?”
“Hmm. OK. Are you on any medication?”
I reel off my huge list, although he seems to get a bit bored half way through.
“Well, we’ll just keep you in for a few hours, to check for any changes, so if you’d just like to wait in the A & E area…”
By now it’s 11.45. As I walk in to the casualty waiting area, there are about twenty people, including four youths, who are shouting, swearing, lounging across a whole row of seats. They are clearly annoying the crap out of everyone else, who are trying to ignore them, but it’s late, and the last thing people need is a bunch of thoughtless, belligerent youf making things worse.
I’ve had enough. I am going to have to sit here for about three hours, and I am in no mood for this treatment.
On the basis that this night cannot possibly get any worse, I decide to politely ask them to keep it down, I have a bloody lump the size of a tennis ball above my left eyebrow. My left eye is bruised and bloodshot. I have taken the skin off my nose, and have a cut between my nose and my top lip that is still bleeding. Grazes up my right arm. I have blood drying on my chin, and down my neck. I am wearing a blood-spattered Arsenal shirt. As I approach them, they look up and start shrinking into the plastic seating, I suddenly realise that I am scaring the shit out of these oiks as they are approached by a bloodthirsty old-skool swivel-eyed crazed Arsenal fan.
So without really thinking, I just stand there, point to them, and say “Shut up!!”
And they do. Amazing. Everyone is looking at me open mouthed. I drop into a chair and enjoy the calm, as do the other people, although no one dares say a word, and all move discreetly away from me.
I have to just say that the illusion was shattered when my wife turned up with a pullover and a carton of ribena, but what the hell.
Vinnie Jones next.
