I am not John Fernsby

I should not be here. I should not be here.

What are the chances of two blokes with the same name ending up in the same place at the same time? Sure, John isn’t all that original, but I’ve never met another Fernsby in my life and now there’s two of us at once? It had to be a joke.

But sitting here in the makeup chair whilst the hair stylist calls me ‘sir’, it’s starting to feel like this isn’t a joke. I hadn’t planned this, honestly. All I did was win a radio contest, and when the radio host said:

“Congratulations, John! Come on down to the studio to collect your novelty mug!”

Well, that’s what I did. I came down to the radio studio, which is connected to a load of other television studios and offices. To be honest, I was quite excited and half-expected to run into some celebrity or famous politician, not that I’d have anything to say to one of them. But when I arrived, the whole thing was a bloody maze, and it was half an hour before I found my way to a reception desk and gave my name.

The poor receptionist looked right flustered; she squinted up at me behind her glasses and asked again.

“John Fernsby,” I said, in a clear voice. Bloody hell, I thought, no one speaks Cockney anymore.

She looked at me dubiously, pushing her glasses up on her nose, before checking her sheet. Eventually, she shrugged.

“Apologies, Mr Fernsby. If you’ll just follow me…”

She got up and led the way through more winding corridors until I had completely lost my sense of direction- which really is saying something for a cabbie. Finally, she pulled open a red door.

“This is the one for our guests,” she said. “I’ll just let the team know you’re here and they’ll be along in a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

She held the door barely long enough for me to get through, before she was shooting off again like her desk might get lonely without her. Once she’d gone, I turned around and had a look at the room. Dark green walls and a deep sofa would have made it feel like a comfortable lounge, except for the huge mirror on one wall and bottle of champagne and bowl of fruit sitting on the table. So not like my lounge at all, then. Examining the bottle of champagne, I raised my eyebrows. They treat their guests pretty nice round here. Honestly, I was only here for the mug, but a visit to the studios and a bottle of champagne? Not a bad deal.

I sat down on the sofa and took a bite out of a peach from the bowl. Suddenly, though, I was startled by the sound of the tv in the corner of the room which I hadn’t noticed. A news show was starting, the one they filmed here in the studios. 

Huh. Entertainment, too. Nice.

The newswoman- the one I’d always liked because she looked like if Margaret Thatcher had lost her hairspray- sat at the desk, spelling out the features of the upcoming show. I munched on my peach as she explained in an excited voice that the show had a very special guest this morning.

John Fernsby.

My mouth dropped open, but it was soon explained when they showed a photo of an old professor-type bloke with glasses and the obligatory tweed jacket with elbow-patches. Below, the text said he was an expert on foreign affairs. 

I laughed. What were the odds? Two John Fernsbys in the same building.

I looked up from the telly, though, when someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” I said. They’d taken their time retrieving my mug.

But two people entered instead, and there was no mug in sight. One of them was a woman with dark eyeliner and red lips, the other a man who was wheeling a small suitcase.

“Mr Fernsby! Lovely to meet you,” the woman held out a hand. “My name’s Sandra. Kevin and I will be doing your hair and makeup today.”

Huh?

I opened my mouth to ask if I really looked that bad they couldn’t send me back out into society without a touch-up, but she just pulled me up off the sofa and into the swivel chair in front of the huge mirror.

With them unpacking behind me, I could still see the tv screen reflected back to me in the mirror, and I began to have a horrible sinking feeling in my nether regions.

The woman, Sandra, came at me with what looked like a large sponge, and I dodged the goopy substance that was sitting on top.

“Well, now,” Sandra said, like a schoolteacher giving a warning to a naughty child. “Surely you’ll want a little, you really do need some when you’re in front of the camera.”

“Camera?” She didn’t seem to notice my eyes bulging out of my head. “But no, I’m just here-”

“I know you’re here to talk about very serious politic-y stuff, Mr Fernsby, but you have to let us do our job.”

“You don’t understand, I’m not here to-”

But I was cut off by the sound of Kevin’s ridiculously large hair dryer turning on. I tried to keep talking, waving and shouting, but they just smiled and mimed that they couldn’t hear me.

Oh God. They think I’m him; they think I’m some kind of political expert who’s going to explain the ins and outs of Britain's foreign relations. I mean, most cabbies pretend to know all about that, but I didn’t actually know anything.

Surely my Rolling Stones t-shirt and old sneakers should have given them a clue that I wasn’t who they thought I was? The receptionist’s face flashed through my mind, and I realised why she had seemed so dubious when I gave my name, but she had been too bloody busy to give it a second’s notice. Maybe she thought this was my working class disguise so I wasn’t mobbed in the streets by political groupies.

Either way, here I am, sitting in a chair, getting hair and makeup done for an interview I know nothing about. On television. Actual, bloody television.

I have to find the real John Fernsby. Oh, what am I saying? I am the real John Fernsby- just not the right one.

Signalling that I need to use the facilities, I manage to dodge Kevin’s hair dryer and slip out the door. In the hall, however, I am immediately spotted by an assistant wearing an absurd number of lanyards and a terrified look.

He looks between me and the door behind me, which I now see is labelled with ‘Dr. John Fernsby’. He sags with relief.

“Mr Fernsby, oh thank goodness!” The assistant, who looks to be about 12-years-old, runs up to me, grabbing the sleeve of my t-shirt. “They’re running ahead of schedule and if I don’t have you up there in two minutes, they’ll fire me for sure.”

Dragged along the hall by the surprisingly strong child, I glance around, looking for anything to get me out of this, but then we’re through a set of swinging doors and onto the enormous news set. I would have been gobsmacked by the sheer number of cameras, people and rigging if my heart hadn’t been in my throat, threatening to strangle my airways.

Wait. That’s it.

I’m not as ancient as the Doctor John Fernsby, but I am in my mid-fifties with a diet that would be unappealing to even the most shiftless teenager. And the missus is always saying I’m bound to have a heart attack one of these days. Why not today?

As the assistant goes to hand me to someone with a clipboard and a headset, I suddenly stagger and clutch my chest.

“Oh, oh it’s my heart.” I say, trying not to think about the lengths I have gone to to get this damn mug.

As I lay on the ground, trying to make my breathing sound laboured and the crowd of people around me grows, I hear a voice.

“Someone should get him a doctor.”

I wedge one eye open to see none other than the John Fernsby standing over me.

The newswoman, who looks even more impressive in person, comes in too and shakes his hand. “John, good to see you again. Oh!” She frowns at the sight of me laying there, like she can’t believe the audacity of someone having a heart attack in her place of work. “Who is this?”

The assistant looks between me and the real John- the other John- with wide eyes, slowly putting two and two together. We make eye contact and realise that we’re both in this shit together.

“He wandered in, ma’am. I think he’s delirious. I’ll get him some help.” He says quickly, pulling me up off the ground and out of the studio.

We burst out, and I can see the assistant beside me, breathing heavily like he's just narrowly missed being hit by a bus. Having spotted the exit sign and planning to complete my own escape, I pat him on the back.

“You’ll do alright, kid. Just make sure you check who someone is before you make them comment on the state of foreign affairs in front of the entire country, yeah?”

I begin making my way down the hall toward the sweet, sweet exit sign.

“Wait.” I turn around to see the assistant running up to me, holding something. “Thanks for not ratting me out. Please, have this.”

He runs back inside and I am left standing in the hall holding…a novelty mug from the bloody radio station.