A few more yanks and my old artificial tooth thing is no more; I have a huge gap in my mouth that is dripping pus and blood along with an unidentified fragment of metal that appears to have been left in there by a previous dentist. We take a two-minute break before he starts to clean out the abscess – but it could be two hours for all I know, such is my state of stunned distress. Randy croons dolefully in my ears.
When I was a small child, I fell off my bike quite spectacularly, via the simple mistake of trying to emulate not just US daredevil Evel Knievel and his stunt bike, but the plastic US daredevil Evel Knievel that you could wind up and send soaring over a dozen Matchbox lorries, as featured on Channel 4’s I Love the 50 Top Toys That You Should Not Try to Emulate. I required an immense amount of dental surgery as a result, but I cannot remember those particular times being as bad as this. I suspect my teeth have become more sensitive as I’ve got older. The session finished, I take my jacket with shaking hands and stumble from the surgery in a dull state of shock.
The road outside is noisy; market town traffic passing each way, a brewery lorry unloading. But I hear nothing. I just walk, my eyes fixed on some random point in the far distance, my mind blanker than it has ever been. I take out my mobile phone to ring the LTLP, but a passer-by looks at me very oddly and as I do not feel like talking anyway, I shove it back into my trouser pocket.
I feel utterly alone. With shock I realise that I am already sinking into negative thoughts so early in my brave battle against tooth abscess. I should do something positive. If I write to the Observer demonstrating that I can face tooth abscess with wit, good-humour and poignant humanity then they will probably give me a column in their magazine, ‘Tooth Abscess and Me’. Being the person who brings the ‘TA’ word out of the darkness of taboo and into an environment where people are not afraid to talk might be my crowning achievement in life.
‘Crowning’!
Even in my lowest hour, I can still laugh at my own very funny jokes. I rejoice in the smile that spreads across my war-torn face as I traverse the mini-roundabouts and head towards the centre of town and the pharmacy.
Return of the grievous bowls players
Past the shop, past the village pub and south, where the cottages peter out and there dwell just deer, pigs and pheasants. Across the Peddars Way, the ancient thoroughfare that brought the Romans from Suffolk to their holiday villas on the north Norfolk coast; down through the fields and woodlands of the Royal estate to the main road. Popular Radio 2 DJ Chris Evans spurs us on, playing ‘Can You Feel It’ by the Jackson 5. If there was ever a record to pump you up for a bowls match then it is ‘Can You Feel It’ by the Jackson 5.
Game one. Game on.
Unusually, we have a passenger. Karen has joined us this year, from another club. It is her very first game for us, and she will probably be intimidated and nervous. Big Andy and I put her at her ease in between funking along to the music.
‘Canyoufeeeeelit!’ I sing, indicating right.
‘It’s quite a nice green tonight, although you wouldn’t expect it right in the middle of town,’ says Big Andy.
‘And it’s directly behind the pub,’ I add. ‘Although to be frank it was a bit lively in there when we went last year. ‘Bahbahbahhhh-bahhbahbahcanyoufeeeeelit.’
‘Wasn’t there a fight or something?’ he asks.
‘I don’t think it was exactly a fight,’ I recall. ‘I think it was just a bit lively. There was lots of shouting and stuff. Certainly I remember the barmaid running in and hiding behind the door. But then it was almost…six o’clock on a Friday night.’ I slow down as we approach a roundabout. ‘Baahbahbahhhbahhhbahhhbahhh-canyoufeeeelit!’ I add.
‘Hopefully we’ll be there with a bit of time to spare,’ says Big Andy. ‘Get a quick pint before we start.’
‘Right,’ says Karen.
It is good to have a bit of new blood in the team. We struggled for players last year, after the club suffered green-uncertainty, and we had almost considered dropping out of the Thursday night league altogether. But a strong showing in the tables and our reputation for being a good-natured bunch of people have held us in good stead.
‘You might find that we take it a bit less seriously than some of your old lot,’ I call over my shoulder, as the Jackson 5 make way for the traffic report. ‘We’ve got some good players, but everybody’s there to have fun. There’s a – there’s a good atmosphere about it, is the best I can say.’
We will indeed be in good time. Park the car, go for a quick pint, get into the Zone. When you play bowls, it is very important to get into the Zone. Mental and spiritual preparation is everything.
‘A good atmosphere,’ confirms Big Andy, as we pull to a halt.
‘No we are not fucking all right,’ snarl Ron and Vicky, stepping out of their car and responding to my cheerful greeting quite alarmingly angrily. ‘He hasn’t picked us, has he? Years we’ve played for this club! Well he’s a fucking arsehole so we’ve turned up here anyway to fucking tell him so, and he can stick his fucking bowls club where it belongs.’
The Zone announces a temporary suspension and apologises for the inconvenience.
‘Right…um,’ I reply.
‘No offence to you lot, and we wish you well, but it’s time he had a piece of my mind, and I shall fucking give it to him when he arrives and it won’t be pleasant, I can tell you,’ says Vicky.
‘We’ve got the trophies from last year – he can fucking take those as well,’ adds Ron.
‘Um – perhaps we’ll go for a quick pint and leave you to it,’ suggests Big Andy.
‘Best not to interfere,’ I agree.
I see a car approaching out of the corner of my eye.
‘Here he is now,’ says Ron.
As the car pulls up, we realise that it is not Howard the club captain, but Nigel. I make frantic ‘we are going to the pub, quick quick stop the car and leap out and join us as fast as you can as there is going to be an angry scene in the car park’ gestures. But he just blinks at us in incomprehension, so we sportingly abandon him.
‘Just a little disagreement,’ explains Big Andy as we hasten away.
‘Right,’ says Karen.
I can see both sides of the quarrel. Doing the Human Resources for a small club is not a job that I would personally volunteer to do, even if I wasn’t so busy at the moment what with the stuff at home and the sorting out the band and things. It is a thankless and tiring task, and you are always likely to upset someone in the act of doing it. But I have always got on well with Ron and Vicky, having played in their block many a time. I hope it will sort itself out, somewhere else, where I won’t be involved with people shouting ‘fuck’ at other people. Big Andy clearly feels the same. We will hide bravely in the pub until the scene is over. It has always been a nice pub.
The pub is closed.
An aroma of angry dispute drifts on the air from behind us. ‘It can’t be closed!’ I moan, pulling once more at the door, ignoring the scrunch of broken glass beneath my feet.
‘It’s definitely closed,’ confirms Big Andy, stepping back from the tightly drawn blinds, the empty bottles discarded on the