Storm in a Teabag

Big Dave was well gutted. Still, he was almost sure this would turn
out to be nothing more than the latest in a series of bizarre crises
which had come his way over the years. So far, none had been serious
enough to threaten his position, either physical or in the
community.
For almost fifteen years Big Dave had presided as landlord behind the
bar of the Jolly Beggars public house. In that time he been the trusted
confidant of whole generations of his neighbours, many of whom he had
watched grow up and had from time to time assisted and encouraged in
the performance of their lives. Add to that his firm but fair treatment
of any trouble-makers unwise enough to disturb the ambience of his pub,
his wisdom in the settling of disputes between regulars, his manifest
joy in their triumphs, his ready sympathy and helping hand in their
troubles.
In short, Big Dave was the perfect pub landlord. Nobody was ever
churlish enough (or foolhardy enough) to mention, in his hearing, the
fact that, over the years he had enjoyed the charms of virtually every
one of his female regulars between the ages of eighteen and sixty (most
of the latter having been well below the age of sixty at the time of
the affair). None of Big Dave's affairs seemed outragous at the time,
only in accumulation, so to speak. In any case, very few of them had
been happily married at the material time.
And now Big Dave had cancer. Well, not exactly - at least it was not
confirmed yet. The doctor had used a form of weasel words which
suggested there was a possibility that cancerous cells might be present
in a growth which had taken up residence within his body, but Big Dave
could recognize writing on the wall when he heard it - he didn't need
to wait for the results of the tests.
As we have seen, Big Dave was fairly confident of beating this latest
crisis. Still, he could not quite suppress that tiny sliver of unease
nibbling at his self-image. After all, he had to admit, at the end of
the day and in the long run, it might turn out that he was as mortal as
any other leading character in a popular British TV soap.
Alan Fletcher, the actor who played Big Dave, was well aware that his
character's cancer was sure to be confirmed. It's not like real life -
the writers don't hint at a major new story-line, for it just to fizzle
out. The important issue was the question of whether Big Dave would
conquer the cancer menace. Or was he being written out of the series?
For Alan, that would be not only the end of an era, but also the
probable end of his acting career.
Over the years, Alan had taken on board the persona of Big Dave, to the
extent that he was known by that name to his large circle of
acquaintances in his own local, and indeed everywhere else. The real
Alan had retreated to a remote corner of his mind, to be brought out
only for such occasions as the signing of each new extension of his
television contract.
Big Dave discussed his fears with his friend Wally, who ran the jellied
eel stall on the pavement outside the Jolly Beggars.
'I dunno,' Wally said, 'I ain't heard nuffin, like on the ol'
grapevine, but you can never tell what them smartarse producers is
gonna come up wiv . . . its prob'ly just a wossname, to stir up
interest and build up the viewing figures or sunnink, you know, like
the time they had that mad axe murderer taking refuge in Flossie's
corner shop for three days.'
Big Dave didn't look any less gloomy. He said:
'Look what happened to that bloke Grant Mitchel in East Enders. He was
a thick bald bad-tempered barman in that. After he, uh, left, he popped
up in a new series where he was a thick bald bad-tempered copper. That
didn't have much in the way of legs . . . so then he was a thick bald
bad-tempered lawyer in something else for about five minutes and he
ain't been seen since. Remember him?'
'Just about.'
'Right, well my acting range ain't even as wide as his. If they dump me
from here, my only chance is to get into some soap . . . I mean serial
drama, that's looking for a pub landlord called Big Dave.'
'Look, mate,' said Wally, 'you're prob'ly gonna live through this. It's
just a storm in a tea-bag . . . and I'll tell you how I know. See, at
the end of that episode . . . the one where the doc handed you that
guff about the chances of it being the big C?'
He waited for Big Dave's nod before continuing.
'Right, well I watched that episode - I do sometimes - and after the
end credits, they put up that stuff on the screen, you know, about if
any of the stuff in this programme is similar to your situation, then
you should ring this number an' get a spot of free counselling and
suchlike. Well don't you see, that puts you well in the clear.'
Big Dave was puzzled, 'How d'you work that out then?'
'Well, stands to reason. It they drop Big Dave in the ultimate shit
from a great height, it's like they're giving the thumbs down to all
them sad cases that called the help-line.'
Big Dave was not convinced. 'Mmmm, maybe, but I still don't like
it.'
Wally clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder.
'Look, BD, no matter how bad it might seem, just remember this - it
ain't over by a long chalk - not until the fat lady hits the
fan.'
Wally suddenly didn't sound quite as convincing as he had before - but
hope still lived on in Big Dave's heart.
Until he turned up for a day's shooting the next week, to find his
fellow actors looking shifty. He approached Wally, intent on finding
out what was going on. But Wally, remembering there was someone he had
to see, dropped the newspapers he was reading, and headed for the
production office.
Big Dave picked up the Daily Mail, open at the headline:
Big Dave Bites the Sawdust
The Sun was a little more forthright:
Britain's Randiest Barman Gets the Chop.
Alan Fletcher shivered, and knew he was all alone in the world with no
friends and no means of support. His life was over.