Let me set the scene, its a lovely summer evening in Walthamstow. The boys of East 17 are settling in for the evening after discussing another long awaited comeback at the Standard, Blackhorse Road. And I am on my way to Whipps Cross Hospital to get my fucked up leg checked out.
It has swollen to the size of a balloon and the break is throbbing. Mixed emotions, thoughts are bouncing across my mind. Will I need to be caged up again? Will I have to wear one of those moon boots that a certain Mr Rooney was spotted with in the red tops? Or will they put me out of my misery and chop the thing off? Only the skilled physicians at London's shittiest hospital will know.
The waiting room is full of crackheads, polish pricks with their chests stuck out and Asian families sprawled across the comfortable metal chairs. The nan is there, the cousin, the second cousin, the second cousin twice removed, I think I even spotted a goat. One women is mopping up her own blood as she stumbles to the consultation room. I heart Whipps Cross Hospital.
I get shown my own X-rays and asked what I think about them. Well let me see, the last time I checked I hadn't finished my doctorate, maybe you can tell me? I get told my leg is never going to be the same again, I was lucky to have kept it in the first place, I'll probably be on painkillers for the rest of my life. I know this shit, I've heard it all before, just tell me why I can't walk and why I can't fit into my jeans?
These are the ramblings of a pissed off guy, a guy who has had enough of the last year. But hey, ho, things can only get better!
Anywho, Style Council has been postponed until I can walk again. Until then, keep shining.
Spare change guv'ner?