Dr. Faceplant, or: How I Learnt to Stop Worrying and Love My Gums.


Any requests? “How did you lose your tooth?”, you say? More of a question but what happened was:

I had gone to Swansea to play a gig at the launch party of artawe.com. Spell-check is telling me ‘artawe’ isn’t a real word so I’m just ignoring it as I have the flyer for the gig in-front of me and there’s the word. Thrice. I’ve spelt ‘spell-check’ wrong though. Anyway, I had a lot of free wine and needless to say I was a little bit drunk. Hammered drunk, in-fact. They kept giving me drinks vouchers. I was only supposed to get two. I got eight. Eight! After the gig we went off to Monkey Bar and went upstairs to find some seats out on the smoking terrace. We did. We found seats. Before even sitting down on them I went to the bar with Simon and another guy whose name I have forgotten. If your reading this, I’m sorry for what you had to witness. He only had one kidney though and could only drink shots as a result apparently.. What a wacky excuse. I digress. The last thing I remembered was walking to the stairs. Then I remember waking up, or coming round, in a hospital ward in Morrison surrounded by beds with amputees on then, covered in what I could only assume to be my own blood and missing a tooth, with a broken nose, two black eyes, two fat lips, a inch-wide gash on my forehead, a really wonky eyebrow, a gash across my nose from where my glasses hand been pushed into my face and an intact pair of glasses. I asked a nurse what had happened and as she started to explain everything the whole event came flooding back to me.

I had walked over to a staircase to go to the bar, talking to the guy whose name I forget over my shoulder and didn’t realise how close the steps were. I tripped on the top one, but as I had so much momentum I cleared the whole staircase and my fall wasn’t broken untill I hit the floor. With my face. Simon say’s (Narf narf) that he heard a loud thud and turned around to see me face down in a pool of my own blood, which was getting increasingly larger, and they guy whose name I forget had his hands on his head saying “Don’t do this to me Miles!” Over and over again. He saw the whole thing. He had the best view in the house. I really should find out who it was. Anyway, I don’t know about this bit because I was out cold, but I do have a vague memory of opening my eyes and being on a stretcher with my neck in a brace, eye to eye with a paramedic who I called a ‘silly cunt’, laughed, and quietly slipped back into unconsciousness. Then I come round again in the Hospital at about two in the morning with a drip in my arm, which I immediately pulled out. Like in the films. ‘Cause I’m a tough-guy. My face was a complete mess and I was drenched in blood with all my hair caked together. My tooth, by the way, was still in my head at this point. Just a bit further out than it was. I asked a nurse about it and she said that I shouldn’t worry and try not to play about with it too much. This information didn’t fly well with me as it was in my mouth and only I knew how uncomfortable it felt. Also, I was quite confident that there was no way my tooth was going to stay in and a dentist would have to pull it out for me anyway. I had decided there and then that if it was coming out, it was coming out on my terms. That’s the kind of confidence you get after two bottles of wine, some morphine, and a blow to the head from seven-foot. I sat upright on the bed and began to slowly rock my tooth back and forth. It was excruciating but in my heart of hearts I knew it was for the best.  It probably took about ten or fifteen minutes. Longer than this bit would be in a comedy set anyway. I remember the relief when I finally managed to get it out and I tossed it into a medical waste bin and went outside for a fag. I didn’t have any on me so I asked a gentleman if I could have one of his and he started to tell me it was his last one, turned around, looked at the state on me and said “Fucking ‘ell, buddy. You can have a fag actually, yeah. You genuinely look like you need one.” I later found out that had I left my tooth in a dentist could have sewn in back in quite easily.

You live and learn, eh?

I still have the glasses. They taunt me every time I look in the mirror and brush the place my tooth use to be.

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One response to “Dr. Faceplant, or: How I Learnt to Stop Worrying and Love My Gums.

  1. Pingback: Sobering Up & Cheering Up or; Cancer! Booze! Misery! | The "Wonderful" World of (Spencer) Miles Lloyd

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