Hello! Tommy’s mate, Barry, here. The more observant among you may have noticed that Tommy hasn’t posted much of late. The good news is, he’s now finished his treatment – hooray!
The bad news is, it’s left him feeling ill. Very ill. So ill, in fact, that he’s currently pretty much bed-bound, and unable to get here to blog about his latest experiences himself. Rest assured, though, he’ll be back just as soon as he’s able.
In the meantime, I thought I’d write a little about another time Tommy was seriously ill, although on this occasion it was as a result of something far less serious than cancer. It was as a result of this stuff:
Tommy was living in London at the time, but was up visiting me in the Highlands of Scotland. He was actually appearing in a film I had written and was directing, but that’s a story for another time.
After the first day of shooting, we all went out to celebrate at a local pub. There, we had a few very civilized pints, before deciding to try the glittering beverage above. Goldschlager, in case you don’t know, is a sort of cinnamon liqueur, with lots of little flakes of gold floating around in it. According to some random bloke in the pub, the flecks of gold are designed to lightly slice the back of your throat so that the alcohol reaches your bloodstream faster. Sounds a little dubious to me, but then, if you can’t trust random blokes in the pub, who can you trust?
Shortly after our fourth or fifth shot, I turned round to find Tommy had vanished. Just… vanished. Gone. Disappeared without a trace.
I hunted all round the pub for him, checking in the toilets, under tables, and anywhere else I thought he might have ended up. But to no avail.
I broadened the search, stepped outside, then gasped in amazement. The streets… The streets were paved with gold! And vomit! Not necessarily in that order.
I looked round to find Tommy slumped against the pub wall. He was shimmering from head to toe, and for a moment I thought he was being beamed aboard the Starship Enterprise, but soon realised that, no, he was just covered in Goldschlager-laced vomit, too.
It was decided we’d get a taxi back to mine, where we were all staying. Four of us piled into the taxi, with Tommy propped up against one of the doors in the back. As the taxi trundled the five miles back to my house, Tommy’s condition began to deteriorate. Considering his condition at the start of the journey – covered in vomit and semi-conscious – this did not bode well.
Sure enough, about two miles in, Tommy opened the passenger door (while we were travelling at 50mph) so he could puke onto the road. The taxi driver quickly slammed on the brakes, and told us that Tommy couldn’t stay in the cab, as the driver didn’t want to risk having to get the upholstery dry-cleaned.
And so, at 2am, 3 miles from home in the Highlands of Scotland, Tommy and I got out of the taxi and alternately walked, staggered and crawled home. I managed to get him up the stairs to bed, and asked if he wanted tea, toast or anything to calm his stomach. He mumbled that no, he didn’t, then fell into bed.
I went downstairs, just in time for the house phone to ring. It caught me off guard and I immediately became worried. Who would be phoning my house at 3am? I tentatively picked it up. “Hello?” I said.
“Yeah,” said a voice, after a lengthy pause. “I will have some toast.”
Fortunately, he bounced back quick and was ready for filming next day. I know you’ll all join me in wishing him a speedy recovery on this occasion, too. If you have a moment, please leave a comment for him below. I know he’ll be reading them, and all the well-wishes you can spare will be a huge help to him at this horrible time.