I am sitting in front of a mirror with lightbulbs round its edges, in a studio in central London. A makeup woman called Emma is glueing a prosthetic eyelid under my right eyebrow. When it’s in place I can only open my eye part way. It’s not attractive.
The band I’m in is shortly to release a CD, and this is the set of our music video. Over the course of the shoot each of us will be made over into a variety of Victorian criminals. The bass player is sitting next to me having tattoos applied to his arms and neck. Behind me the drummer is having side whiskers glued to his face. Various devices – stage dirt, tooth blackener, warts which are actually Rice Krispies – have been deployed to make us look appropriately ravaged and disfigured, but the makeup people are also working with what we have.
“I’ve never fully understood how hideous I am,” I say, looking in the mirror.
“Me neither,” the bass player says.
Once Emma finishes with me I’m led out to Fred the director, who looks me over.
“When does he go into makeup?” he says to Emma.
“I don’t really have a sense of humour about myself,” I say.
I stand on my mark while Fred encourages me to strike a variety of poses. I think he wants me to act, and I think I’m letting him down. Afterwards I go back to the mirror to have my makeup removed. Then I am re-made up, this time as a woman.
Emma asks me what I do when I’m not appearing in music videos.
“Really?” she says. “What kind of journalism?” I tell her.
“Do you have some kind of specialist subject?” she says. A hairdresser appears and starts clamping my hair down with pins. I try to explain.
“But what if nothing interesting happens to you that week?” Emma says. “What do you do?” A wig, done up in rag curlers, is pulled over my head.
“Nothing interesting ever happens to me,” I say.
“You have really soft hair,” the wig woman says.
“Thanks,” I say.
“So in that case, what do you end up writing about?” Emma says. She and the hairdresser begin to glue the wig’s edges to my forehead, while I struggle to describe a representative example.
“Huh,” Emma says. “And what did your wife think about that?”
“That looks good,” the wig woman says. Both of them look at me in the mirror.
“Oh,” I say.
“What’s wrong?” Emma says.
“Nothing,” I say. “I just thought I’d be prettier.”
Once again I am led out and shown to Fred.
“You look great!” he says.
“How did you know it was me?” I say.
I’ve got just one more transformation left before the end of the day: I am to be covered with sewage. The sewage itself is a mixture of stage dirt, moisturiser, paint and more Rice Krispies. It is cold, and I am slathered in it: it’s in my ears and my nose, and all over my neck, shoulders and hands. I stand in front of Fred, with the stuff dripping off me.
“He is going to need some makeup,” Fred says.
“I expected that,” I say. He wanted a sewage worker, I think, and he chose me.
For the last time I stand on my mark as lights are trained on me, and supplementary gunk is gingerly applied. Fred steps out from behind his monitor.
“I think you can more or less be yourself with this one,” he says. “You know, just kind of generally pissed off with everything.” It’s more than a part, I think. It’s a calling.
