Coronavirus: My Struggle
I’ve got to say I’m more than a little bit disappointed by the bad press I’ve been getting over the last 6 weeks or so. Quite frankly, I currently feel about as welcome as Tony Blair was at Richard Burgon’s 2019 General Election defeat Hootenanny. Those were the days - before hand sanitiser became the rage and people who picked their nose and wiped it on the arm of the sofa became ostracised by society. That night around Burgo’s gaff, my army of germs and myself sat on a cheese & pineapple hedgehog and looked on as Len McCluskey kept returning from the karzi after a slash, sans washed hands, repeatedly double dipping Doritos and shoving his forefinger up his hooter.
Len and I go back a long way. He told me he was all set to fight in the Spanish Flu International Brigades back in 1918 but failed the physical. If the truth be told, he actually physically didn’t exist back then. He continues to blame it all on a succession of repressive Tory governments and the yoke of capitalism. That may well be, but I’m more inclined to put it down to him not being born for another 32 years. Technically speaking there’s also the minor detail that if he had been around, he would’ve taken the shape of a big hairy arsed, tetchy man and not a small infectious agent that replicates only inside the living cells of an organism. But there again, that’s me splitting hairs. Indeed, the closest he came to performing heroic deeds in Europe was when he was selected to represent Southport in Jeux Sans Frontieres. Personally speaking, I have very fond memories of that show as a result of giving Stuart Hall an explosive dose of the shits in Wolfsburg.
It’s been a very busy couple of months. The other week I touched down in the US of A to pay some of my stateside enzyme homies a visit. I have to say that everything they say about President Trump is true – and I don’t apologise for what I’m about to say. President Trump is a viracist. He invited a load of germs over for the weekend in his Mar-a-Lago resort, and I wasn’t on the guest list.
Staphylococcus aureus was there sat on Mike Pence’s elbow like the big old prick he is (the bug that is) and even that preening twat streptococcus was doing the rounds, glad-handing all the other members of the germ community. Everyone else gets to hang out at the resort, besides yours truly. The problem with the orange tool is the fact he has no sense of history. My father gave a nasty sore throat to Richard Nixon back in ’71, my Grandfather was responsible for Lyndon Johnson’s elbow blowing up in ’65. But obviously this means nothing to Trump. My people have been around for approximately 1.5 billion years and he chooses to flout our right to infect the shit out of him and his staff.
Sadly, my dear friend Botulism (that’s Mr Botulism to you) failed to show. He was due to do a turn on the Presidential cheeseburger but was doubled booked to appear in 50,000 tins of salmon. Shame he had to cancel, because anyone who’s anyone in the germ community had ringside seats in the Commander in Chief’s lavatory for what was being billed as Judgement Day.
Whilst I was there, I bumped into the Foot & Mouth guys who were in town to make a complete Horlicks of the President’s pastime. “We’d planned to infect a quarter of the greens on his golf course, but then calculated that every minute he spends on the golf course is another minute he’s not in the White House completely fucking something up, so we held fire on that one.”
My PA made sure my diary was clear so I could visit one of my favourite countries (I have over a hundred of them as we speak), Britain. There was a worry that my visa had run out and I might not get in to the country, but thanks to some middle class people who think their skiing holiday in Italy is more important than ensuring people don’t spend two weeks coughing their lungs up until they shit, I was able to sail through passport control.