From Jester To King XXXIX
By Simon Barget
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With the boil in my belly-button festering and my teeth falling out, I was not in great shape. I managed to remove the boil without medical assistance. I didn’t so much as lance it but just cut it out right out from the bottom leaving a rasping fiery red bed of open sore flesh. The teeth I can live with and hardly even remember them getting so bad. Now there’s a gap in my mouth that makes me look like I’m homeless. In the bottom left as you look and what teeth husks remain are unstable and threaten to come out at a wind’s blow. I’d forgotten about the boil wound until we (me and Dad) were already in Peterborough, for the match, an FA cup match; I thought it might be an idea to go see a doctor, but all I could find was a taxi cab firm and it was unlikely that they were going to be able to help me. My Dad had said he’d seen a doctor’s somewhere but I for the life of me couldn’t find them. I ventured one more look at the flesh: it was hot and sore and painful and weeping and I was worried to leave it as it was as it might have been infected and need a dressing. I was still proud of my surgical work however and how brave I had been at enduring the removal. By the way the boil had had this enormous white head on it, the largest head I’ve seen and I am indeed one of those prurient people who derives a great deal of pleasure from popping spots and seeing sebum and pus break pop and seep all over the skin. But the joke was on me in a way because I had to go beyond that whole layer altogether to get at the dermal layers underneath and never got that beautiful satisfaction of the pop in itself. Anyhow, quite enough about my boil. I didn’t get to watch any football because I spent the whole time walking up and about the parades of shops just outside the stadium, a wounded man looking for doctors.
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