life with rabies

 

Alarmist morning phonecall from Rowena Fortescue, the thrice vaxed neighbour who informs me she is surprise surprise currently suffering from the little known Flu virus trying to impersonate Rabies, referred to by suggestible gulpens everywhere as Covid 19.

Rowena's got it.

Hoo baby she's got it.

She's got a mild flu.

Laced with panickeroo.

That's her fire.

What's your desire?

Wu hu hu hu.

Covid 19 was her name.

Hoo baby she's got it.

Ner ner ner ner.

Banarama would get a song out of that.

To be fair to Rowena, she's not selfish, she had tried her best to give the virus to me well before this morning's diagnosis, insisting on treating me to lunch last week and all that jazz.

We went to lunch but it didn't take.

Now her kids all have it.

She says her husband doesn't have it but you know, if the house is full of it, how the hell wouldn't he have it.

Maybe he was one of those sensible people who didn't inject themselves with unborn baby milkshakes posing as vaccines.

"Are you scared?" I asked Rowena.

"Not really no."

"Because you don't think you're in any danger do you? Go on admit it."

"Okay I don't. At the same time I don't want to jinx it."

Jinxing something is a colloquial expression used in Ireland to connote an over confidence that brings about hubristic bad luck.

"Well as long as you're thinking clearly you should be alright," I said. "And the Health Services Executive have warned that jinxing Covid 19 is positively the worst thing you could do. You might turn it into a real disease. Jinxing is a concept now considered the best science available. So whatever you do, don't jinx it."

"I'm going to be really angry if you don't get it," mused Rowena philosophically.

great moments in sport

 

Perhaps the finest moment of bathos during the two year Corona virus kabookie came when the Irish Postal Service announced early in the shenanigans that they would distribute unlimited numbers of pre paid postcards to the entire populace.

The idea was that you could write to anyone you liked for free during the course of newly imposed government lockdowns.

It was quite a good community minded venture and I daresay if the postal service had more ideas like this, the company might actually have a future.

The bathos came with the design of the free postcards.

They were large cardboard jobs with plenty of room to write on.

No problem there.

The issue arose from the cover of the postcards which featured a plain green logo proclaiming a single word.

LOVE

Well bold readers, I don't know how many people you could send that postcard to, but I could send it to a grand total of nought persons.

Ho hum.

Love my arse, as we are increasingly inclined to say in the trade.

There was further bathos during those early fake pandemic days, as Post Office spokesperson Randy Testicleington appeared on national television to announce the scheme.

"Now you can express your feelings by post to everyone you love," he said brilliantly.

He wore a beige suit with lounge lizard moustage and shoulder length hair, looking exactly like a character I remember from the old 1970s television ad for Hi Karate aftershave.

I wonder could it ever have been the same guy.