Having spent the best part of today defending Michael Jackson against derision and poor taste jokes, I feel drained. Plus, I have a cold and it’s summer. It makes no sense. Only wimpy hayfever people have runny eyes and stuff in the sunshine.
I have teased myself with the fact I may have swine flu. I wouldn’t have minded a mild case on Monday – a week off to watch Jacko tributes and Baggy Women – but, on a Friday? There is just no incentive to get ill. I am meant to be hotfooting it to Somerset to eat cheese and drink cider.
With this in mind, I have been conned into buying tablets, vitamins and luminous-coloured energy drinks in an attempt to feel better, when I know in my heart of hearts that all I need is 10 Marlboro Lights and a hot toddy. And attention. Lots of attention. I need to be pampered as if I have just escaped a fire in a 10-storey building. And I need tea. Lots of tea. And maybe a Bourbon too. Malted Milk just don’t cut it today.
My boss just told me I don’t have swine flu (despite rumours that someone in our building had already started growing trotters and a snout). I thought he was being serious, but no, he said I had whine flu. Not even wine flu – that would have been quite funny. Whine flu? Well, I suppose he isn’t far off the mark and that’s what makes it hugely unfunny. Being miserable and pessimistic isn’t something to be snorted at. To imply it is an affliction that infests me is quite rude. And quite possibly true.
What is the cure to such a thing? A few satsumas and a keg of lemsip? Or perhaps a burst of some of the greatest music ever made…. I’ll stick on the Bad album, kick back and be wowed by the genius that is Mr Michael Jackson. RIP