Friday afternoon was mellow. Doctor was pleased I was flatlined with all my blood numbers barely able to raise their hands for roll call. A hospital cheeseburger with fries was on the way.

And then suddenly I’m Nigel, an aging British rocker in rehab.

The story goes, my two longtime Irish roadies came to spring me but instead just brought my costume: an insane wig, Elton Gaga glasses and a tattoo saying either MOM or WOW depending on how I affixed it.

When Ronan and Aidan opened the hermetically sealed items — germs don’t ya know — my transformation became complete. No longer Rodney by the hour, I was Nigel.

Dragging Ivy, my first stop was the nurses’ station. A media frenzy ensued when they became the British tabloid press trying to do ol’ Nigel in with their cameraphones clicking and wanting to pose with me.

Several nurses who’ve treated me became former lovers of that rapscallion Nigel who had wronged them over the years in his haze. No one, fortunately, took the bait and slipped a little gin or stout into my water cup.

Circling the ward with my phony-fake English accent, nurse Hellen became my beleaguered publicist, checking rooms for patients who’d remember me and my mates during our glam rock days. Then back in my private cell I sunk back into me.

There was a brief interruption when wife and daughter arrived and were rock-shocked by the getup, only to burst into insane laughter and poses of their own before Er-bear, my leukemia licker, became Hair bear.

Anyone who says life ain’t grand, strongly needs a visit from their own private Nigel.

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