Next stop: Nottingham

As promised, it was one helluva make-up tour. And through all of it the Mission Express played phenomenally. Making me look good. Making every song sound brand new. It was great to get out there in the thick of it. See some old friends. And make some new ones. 

Boy, Nottingham. One guess who stepped in it?

We arrived the night before after driving from our gig in Sheffield. We had no real days off, so the thinking was to make it possible for me to see a dentist the morning of the Nottingham gig. I’d cracked a tooth at the first show. The Ribs and Blues Festival in Raalte, Holland. Figured I’d go along with the program and eat the catering, even though it didn’t look particularly enticing. I sat down at a picnic table with my sad plate. 

Bit into a rib and… crack! 

I’d pretty much been a walking toothache ever since. The next day was Paris. And the one after that, London. Plus, we were scuttling here and there in trains and planes and taxis with drivers who corkscrewed their way to the destination, running up the meter all the while. I was like, “Cab drivers actually do this? What, are we in a movie? Seriously?” (Maybe all this really is being recorded, like my high school friend Conspiracy Kenny tells me.)

But man, I was having a hard time getting to sleep at night between my ears ringing and my tooth throbbing. The sharp pain. It just takes over. I could feel it, I swear, in my ear.

The receptionist at the dentist’s office handed me a clipboard with questions about allergies and the rest. I neatly filled it out. Turned it in with a smile and sat back down. There are always clues. The lobby had all the atmosphere of a Jiffy Lube. Or a drunk tank, designed so you could just hose the place out on Sunday morning.

They took me upstairs and sat me in a reclining chair. The doctor came in, eventually. He leaned over me, looked in my mouth, poked around with an instrument of some kind, clapped his hands together, and said, “Oh yes, you’ve got a fracture. Right there below the gumline. The tooth has to come out.”

I asked him three different ways if the tooth could somehow be saved, hoping I could trick him into saying it could. I came at him from every angle. Like Columbo!

“So, let me get this right, what you’re telling me is you can’t take just that broken piece out and maybe salvage the rest of the tooth with a temporary crown or…”

“No, I'm afraid, it’s gotta come out. Fractured. Below the gumline.”

“Right.” I was in so much pain, I think I even pronounced it: “Roight.”

He was sticking to his story. And after a little more back and forth, none of which seemed to amuse him, and without any way to estimate the kind of pain we’re talking about and the fact that I had a show to do in a few hours, and one after that, and another one after that, and… I decided to pass.

“Maybe I’ll just chew out of the other side of my mouth for the next couple weeks. What do you think of that?”

“Yes, you could do that,” he agreed, having long since moved on to the next patient in his mind. Or maybe he was deciding where to eat lunch – out of both sides of his mouth. 

And like that he was gone. 

Walking back to the hotel, it occurred to me, “Don’t they sell Tylenol with codeine over here? Over the counter?” Of course they do. So there’s that. Maybe that’ll get me over the hump.

I got to thinking. I guess I could have had that guy yank it out. Twitch and twist around in that chair for a while and be done with it. But it was too nice of a day. And that place really did have a Jiffy Lube vibe. Nah. I hope I made the right decision.

It was a bit of a hike back to the hotel. But beautiful. And I was literally whistling past graveyards.

After the soundcheck, Stephie and I took a good long walk through the city. We ended up getting some Indian food. Found a place with outside seating. Thereby meeting Doctor Finch’s COVID protocols. 

I wasn’t thinking too highly of humanity at this point, or of Nottingham, when a couple fans on their way to the show spotted us. They approached our table with sorry-to-bother-you looks. Said they were at last night’s Sheffield show and were back for more. What wasn’t to like about these two? At one point, one of them leaned in and said he was willing to let us in on a little secret. He looked around like he was about to tell a racist joke or something. I got a little nervous, then he said, “Did you know Robin Hood isn’t actually from Nottingham? I thought about that for a minute and said, “Er, no . . .” 

“He’s from Sheffield,” he confided with a wink, confident that he had just turned my world upside down. 

Well, in a small way he had. “That’s strange,” was all I could muster. But it stuck with me as he kept chatting away. 

Then I said, “So at the end of the day, all Nottingham can lay claim to is Robin Hood’s nemesis, the Sheriff of Nottingham?”

“The Sheriff of Sheffield. Now that doesn’t sound right at all, does it? ”

“No, I guess not.”

So yeah, I also learned there’s a campaign in Sheffield to “Bring Robin Home.” I was ready to sign on.

That night I mentioned my new truth from the Nottingham stage. The words were like halfway out of my mouth when I could tell it probably wasn’t a great idea. I could see James, our promoter, shake his head in a kind of “Chuck, don’t go there” way. But it was too late. Blame the codeine.

The crowd didn’t take it well. 

Boooo!!!! 

I felt like I was on the mound and had just walked a batter with three men on base. And Willie Mays was the next guy up to bat.

Boooo!!!! 

Mind you, hooliganism, it's a contact sport over there on the Angry Island. 

Boooo!!!!

If this went on much longer, we might have to cut a song, I realized. I’m all for thinking on my feet, but… come on, people. 

Well, it passed – but time sure stood still there while they were making up their collective mind to storm the stage or not.

Someone cornered Stephie after the gig. And gave her an earful. She learned Nottingham locals are quick to dismiss these rumors. They dismiss it as an urban legend, nothing more, maybe less. That picks up steam every so often. Just ignore it, they tell each other. I’m reading about it now. Even the current Sheriff of Nottingham weighed in recently: “Robin Hood is as much from Sheffield as Jarvis Cocker is from Nottingham.” She’s even challenged the Sheriff of Sheffield to a wrestling match.

So, I ask you? Not that I’m one to buy into all that “Paul is Dead” business. But they say that about Melania Trump you know. They say the "real" Melania is either dead, or refuses to attend events, so there’s a Melania body double you can spot. If you know how. 

But there’s no denying that we’re living in the Golden Age of Conspiracy Theories. And that Conspiracy Kenny has his finger on the Pulse of the People as much as anyone.

Plymouth Rock? The Mayflower actually landed in Miami. That’s the real story!

Where am I going with all this? 

Oh, when we got home, my Union Square dentist – whose office had a distinctly un-Jiffy Lube-like aroma – said we can get some more years out of that tooth. Gonna fix me up with a nice crown too.

There you have it. Straight from the son of CW Prophet the Third’s mouth.

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Onwards,

– CP