COUGH-COUGH-SPLUTTER-SPLUTTER!

I am ill. 

There is stuff coming out of my head that can only be described as gunge and I have a temperature.  I would go out and get a box of lemsip but I can’t pluck up the energy to get out of bed. 

..1I have the shivers, the shakes, I can’t really keep any food down and just the thought of food turns my stomach.  My joints hurt, my muscles ache and I am really looking forward to the diarrhoea stage of this virus which I am told is not only sudden but explosive. 

This virus was given to me by a friend that hadn’t forewarned me of his illness when I got into his car.  I cannot complain too much as I got a free lift home and it saved me a half hour walk, but still.

So what I intend to do as a form of revenge is pass on the illness that was given to by in a manner of different ways. 

Already this morning I have sneezed in the bread isle in my local Tesco right by the open bread rolls and cheese twists.  I have been to McDonalds where I touched as many of the little paper cups they use for ketchup and BBQ sauce.  While in there I also grabbed a handful of straws then returned them just after I had wiped away some snot from my nose with the palm of my hand; I laughed while I did so.

I am also planning on getting the bus to Valley Drive and back in the morning when it is packed with children and old people.  

..2And at some point over the weekend I’m going to dose myself up with cold and flu remedies, go to Chatham for a night out and get off with as many slags in nightclubs as I can stomach.  After this I might have to throw up in a kebab.  And if I get arrested in the melee that will undoubtedly ensue then all the better; I’ll spend the entire journey to the cells coughing and sneezing over the arresting officers faces. 

But really, I hate being ill.

It’s just fucking gross and it always seem to last twice as long as everyone else’s when I get it.  I know for a fact that this bout of ill will knock me out for at least a week.  I can take all manner of lozenges and tinctures to try and fight the thing off but nothing seems to work.  All I can do is knock myself out with booze and try to sweat the bastard out. 

Once a year at least I get like this, all sweaty and gross like a toad covered with KY in a cloth sack.  In the gloom of my flat, feeling sorry for myself as I sweat through my duvet with fever.  Shaking out the last of the aspirin infused spiced tea through my over sensitive pours and trying to hold down some form of light sustenance.  In fear that that rumbling in my bowel may manifest into something much worse than just a little gastric unease. 

...4What I need it to check into one of those private hospitals that turns into some bizarre bunny ranch at night.  I am of course assuming that these places exist somewhere and if they don’t I hope that I have inspired some crazy millionaire to start one. 

A safe haven where no one will tell me to man up and ask if I want a weak lemon drink with half a ton of Anadin in it.  A place where on request a nurse will disrobe and perform relief with her ample, heavily baby oiled boobs. 

A place where taking your temperature ends up with the thermometer going up her arse… one of those big ones that resembles a massive rubber fist.  Once again I am presuming these exist. 

I always get in in time for the fucking weekend too.  It’s never on a Tuesday so I can ride it out for a few days they maybe have a day out at the weekend without feeling like death has taken a shit in me. 

I try never to book a holiday around this time of year as I know the day before I leave for warmer climes I will catch the lurgy. 

So I’m grounded at the moment.  It’s Friday fucking night and I’m stuck in doors with only a box of Kleenex for company.  I could call for a takeaway and cough into the face of the poor delivery boy when he arrives but that means I will have to get out of bed at some point.  That mixed with the fact that I could murder a curry but will probably throw it all back up the second I finish eating. 

...5I could leave the regurgitated chicken tikka masala in its original containers and leave it out by the benches on the corner and wait for a tramp to come and investigate. 

I might even leave an un-chewed onion bhaji or a bit of naan bread in there just to bait the trap a little more. 

So other than trying to infect every person I come in contact with like some uber-biological-terrorist with my strain of man-flu I will be hiding and making a mountain of snotty tissues on my floor.  I would like to say that I’d get some work done but it feels like someone has smashed a bee hive inside my skull and the only thing I can concentrate on is making tea and trying not to throw up again. 

And all because I was too lazy to walk home from the pub. 


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