Gripped by floods, global cooling and man flew

baby panda

baby panda

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IN COMMON with many people called men, I have been suffering from man flu over the past week or so.

It began on New Year’s eve when I developed a mildly elevated temperature and some aching bones which I had bought from the butcher’s earlier the same day.

As the battle of illness versus determination for enjoyment began, I donned some extra clothes and doused myself in anti bone ache lotion (I think you might know it as beer).

Predictably though, self medication failed miserably and death beckoned with boney finger and glinting scythe.

And, as January leapfrogged December to herald the dawn of a new year, I began to cough.

It wasn’t a peff, it was a big, man sized cough which sounded in all its glory like the mating call of a walrus. I know this to be fact, as two female walri arrived in my back yard the following day but left again rather quickly when they discovered I was producing several buckets of sexy snot per hour, varying in shade from milky white to radioactive green. I kept some of it for analysis by the coroner in case I died.

Man flu had gripped me in its grippy grip. I was dying and I told everyone who would listen … “I have man flu. I am a man with flu. I am dying and I need soup. Chicken with croutons, and chillis.”

Naturally, I made out a will because, apparently, apart from a sex change, there is no cure for man flu. A doctor told me that many moons ago, just before he died of man flu (or maybe he got knocked down by a bus, I can’t quite recall now)

He said: “Anti biotics don’t work against man flu. Pro biotics don’t work. Biotics don’t work, nor do Otics or cough medicines.”

Despite advances in modern technology in recent years, doctors are no use whatsoever when it comes to treating man flu, and if you call upon their services they make it very clear in a very loud voice which can be heard in the waiting room and probably in the street outside that they don’t like seeing people with man flu, especially men, because there is nothing they can do to help.

They will of course helpfully explain to you that man flu is a respiratory illness caused by the influenza virus and that it does not respond to drugs, so you should go home and irritate the wife with your coughing and moaning and stop infecting the doctors and all their staff.

So, as I sit here, I thank God that he invented the person who invented those Kleenex tissues impregnated with balm designed to prevent your nose from becoming sore. Because my nose was so sore the glow was distracting airline pilots and attracting alien species from planets several light years away.

Because there is no cure for man flu I will probably have it for the rest of my life. Luckily, there are remedies which ease the symptoms, such as aspirin, beer and sleep.

Moaning also works as it takes your mind off the illness and I comfort myself with the knowledge that things could be worse

At least I’m not a student.

They all have herpes you know. Everyone one of them. Riddled with it they are.

Students bring the disease back to town with them from university in cars and on trains.

Doting mums and dads pack their sons and daughters away to college each term in the blind and fervent belief that their precious offspring will become doctors who cannot cure man flu and lawyers who sue doctors who cannot cure man flu.

Parents visualise their children as spending each and every night locked away behind the grey walls of stark and austere halls of residence, hunched over old oak desks littered with text books, studying hard.

But that is far from the truth

Because students are filthy little creatures who squander four years away from home by drinking and taking illegal drugs and fornicating with anything with a pulse and/or fewer than eight legs.

Studying is only undertaken during the final three months before an exam and the information used to pass those exams is mostly copied from the Internet.

The last time a student came up with an original idea or train of thought which later formed the basis for a thesis was 1977. Then she moved back to Iran.(Interestingly, Iran is the name of Iran in Persian, and Persia was the name of Iran before it became Iran. I cannot think of any English student who would have known that)

Naturally, this wanton behaviour means that all students catch and carry herpes and quite often Gonorrhea and chives, which they bring back to Driffield, where they pass it on to the friends and pets they left behind.

In my day, it was easy to tell whether the person with who you were merging body fluids had herpes.

You simply asked to see their Polaroids to check for leakage or warts the size of pickled onions. If they refused access, you drank another seven pints and went home with their mum instead.

Nowadays, detection is not quite so simplex. As soon as students develop a wart, they pierce it with a metal rod or get it tattooed with an image of a butterfly.

Hundreds of university students returned to Driffield over the festive period, covered in tattoos and packing the pubs. It was obvious that they all had herpes because they danced and jiggled a lot, even if there was no music playing. It’s a classic means of scratching the itch without using your hands.

So the moral of this tale is that it is better to be old with man flu than young and carrying herpes.

And the other moral is that we are all going to die sooner or later, probably from flooding caused by global warming, which many people claim doesn’t exist as it is so ruddy cold all the time.

Q: What’s the name of the new Tom Cruise eco-thriller? A: Mission Compostable!

Q: What did the environmentalist get when he sat down for too long on an iceberg? A: Polaroids!

Q: How many climate sceptics does it take to change a lightbulb? A: None. It’s too early to say if the light bulb needs changing.

Q: What detergent do Flood victims use to wash their clothes? A: Tide!

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