Rotten Swine

I’ve been going pretty stir crazy with pig sickness for the past seven days now. I think I’m past the peak of the flu. Eating a mushroom and bacon pizza as my evening meal earlier confirmed that.

What are the chances that the rashers mixed in with my mozzarella contained a deadly new strain of pig sickness, and I’m back to where I started last Sunday?

It’s been the best and worst of times to suffer from a media dahhhling illness. I’ve been busy doing nothing, except watching Le Tour and listening to the Ashes each day. An enforced break from work couldn’t have been better timed.

But this weekend marks the first time that I’ve missed the Lambeth Country Show in fifteen years. Oh the irony of not mixing with the farmyard cattle coming to the city, all because I’ve caught some silly illness that originated in the pig pen. I thought of exhibiting myself at Brockwell Park, and charging a fiver each time to infect young children.

Ah yes, ankle biters and swine flu. I suspect (with a 99.9% accuracy) that I contracted the virus Somewhere *else* in SE17. But being a freelancer, I like to pass on my knowledge. I think I’m solely responsible for then introducing pig sickness to Somewhere in SE17 (although in my defence, unknowingly at the time, so that makes it all right then.)

I was also unsure of my status (just about) when I had a couple of corporate gigs up town at a major financial investment bank during the week. I wouldn’t ever want to be accused of delivering the fatal virus that signalled the end of capitalism. No Sireee, as I made a concerted effort to snog every single investment banker, female and male, before departing EC3.

Speaking of the apocalypse, the worst-case scenario figures (red top rumours) suggest that one in three of the UK population will have to experience the past week that I have just endured. All I can say is that if you are a fan of televised cycling, live cricket commentary and an appetite for nothing other than chocolate ice cream, then you’re in for an absolute treat this summer.

Sure, there’s been the sickness, headaches and high fever. But then that’s what I usually experience during Le Tour month anyway.

It’s the aches and pains that are the main problem. I can’t stand up for longer than five minutes at a time. I’m currently about four-fifths the way through the washing up from last Monday night.

And so what started off as a national panic at the very first sight of someone sneezing and sounding ever so slightly like a pig rolling about in s***e, has now been reduced to a workshy blogger making the most of a week off work, having the high time watching Le Tour and listening to the cricket.

That’s the real national disease.

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