How could they have let that woman back into the country? Seriously, a nurse? We’re overrun with them, what with their upside down watches and constant cravings for endless cups of tea. So is it any wonder that we’ve finally taken the necessary steps to fight the plague of far too many nurses in all the wrong places. I speak of course of laboratory testing. You would think that a fully grown nurse is simply far too large to fit under the microscope. Clearly you’ve never been in a properly functioning lab. I would sneer at you for your lack of really rather basic general knowledge but I’m far too nice for such patronising behaviour.
So it’s a fairly simple exercise of taking a cutting from the patient (don’t worry, the tissue will very definitely grow back, I haven’t mixed anything up at all), grind it into a paste that you can very quickly and easily slide onto the observation plate and take a gander at what secretive wonders its tiny structures hold. And it turns out that such investigations have yielded some astonishing results that I absolutely haven’t just made up to fill in some space. They have shaken the scientific community in general and specifically the epidemiologists are leaping up and down with excitement at what these developments will mean for future… things.
It would seem that people who are infected with ebola can actually glow in the dark. Provided that there’s another source of ambient light and someone’s taken the trouble to shine it right behind them. Also, ebola is an utter dick of a microorganism. It will basically moon whoever’s observing it at any opportunity. And it’s always asking for money. It’s even worse that we thought. And it turns out that they have their own tiny motorbikes which is precisely how it manages to be so very infectious and has killed nearly everyone it has encountered. We’re doomed.
So what is it that’s going on with you? Are you going in for altogether entirely deviotic behaviour, lying to all those around you but feeling the compulsion to mark it in some way? Or are you holding out hope for some unlikely event that you hope to effect in some way by the action of your fingers? You know full well that the power to change the course of destiny, it lies in the very tips of your digits if only you could find some way to harness it. Whatever it is you’ve got going on, you’re very definitely going to need my help. I don’t know why I bothered qualifying matters, you’re always going to need me and I’m terribly sorry for not dispensing more advice of late.
I order to furl those tiny hand arms around one another, you need to limber them up. If you try and do it while they’re cold I’m afraid to have to tell you that they could well snap clean off and then you’d be in a very terrible mess. So stretch and wiggle, that’s how you get the blood flowing. Should such an activity help you get into the correct mindset or you merely want to do it anyway, flip a practice bird or two at an unsuspecting passerby. It’s purely a vital part of your exercise regime.
What now? Is it time? Are you ready to wrap your smartphone operators together for whatever reason you might have? Alright then, only if you think you’re adequately prepared. I’m sure you’ve heard the terrible story of Mr Jenkins who crossed his fingers without really thinking about it and accidentally attracted the attention of a passing hawk who took the whole hand for his own. With the poor fellow still attached. But I’m sure that won’t happen to you. Just cross the middle over the index and see what magic unfolds.
I’m sure you know precisely what it’s like to be a well to do popular billionaire about town. Of course you do, we’ve all been there. For one thing, you never have any spare change about your person when you need it, which can lead to terribly embarrassing situations where you look like an incredibly tight fisted git. And that’s not you at all. For another thing, no ordinary shop keeper will give you the correct return for your enormous bills. It’s Murphy’s law or something or other altogether more pedestrian. More than that, it’s so very frustrating indeed.
So for the low low price of one massive bribe that will somehow never ever make its way to the treasury (and will instead somehow wind up gracing the pockets of various ministers, junior or otherwise. Politics, it’s all about fingers in pies. Or something ever so slightly less disgusting in the imagery department) a new law is going to be passed. I am entirely certain that such legislation will have some manner of gloriously euphemistic name. Not quite as handsomely bespoke as our American cousins across the pond would dream of but a watered down form of nomenclature along the lines of the Patriot Act.
However, in the meantime we must allow ourselves to simply say what we see. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the glorious unveiling of the legalising the allowance of the super rich to rifle through the intimate pockets of entirely innocent bystanders, whenever they feel like it and for the flimsiest of pretexts and there’s absolutely nothing that any of you can do about it. I can really definitely see it catching on, can’t you? In a distinctly depressing and devilishly dystopian way. And one that quite certainly isn’t happening already, I don’t know what you’re talking about, la la la can’t hear you.
Do you know how to rile up an old lady pensioneress (I am well aware that the queen does not need to draw a pension. In fact, I’m sure that she’d give her son no end of delight should she announce that she was ready to have hers at long last. I just feel that using the word queen over and over again in this post could get a tad or so wearing, especially for staunch republicans – not in the American sense obviously – like myself)? Sit her on sticky seat in the middle of a crowded coach crammed with people loudly chewing gum, talking at incredible decibels on mobile telephonic devices spewing forth crap music. Then inform her that said carriage will not arrive at its supposed destination until three or four hours past its scheduled destination time by which point one will have entirely and utterly missed the one and only available connection. In order to really drive the point home and break the camel’s back with all manner of cruelly careless straw, you must then inform her that since she has in error purchased the wrong ticket, she’ll have to pay for a new one at three times the price of the one she currently holds.
No wonder poor old Liz was so incensed by what was supposed to be a lovely day trip to the seaside. She was going incognito, you know, the way the plebs do it. She’d heard all sorts of horror stories of the state of affairs of public transport of a weekend but she refused to believe it. Surely such a terrible way of life could hardly be possible? No, it had to be a way to keep the children in line and prevent them from catching poor person germs. But no, she was incensed by the way she was treated, with barely veiled contempt and a naked greed for profit. It’s a shame she hasn’t got any power to change things. Plus she’s got her own carriage so why would she bother about making ours any nicer?
Is it any surprise with Scotland politics being the way they are that they’ve turned to popular franchises like The Hunger Games for inspiration? Really twenty thousand pounds is a sum that’s cheap at twice the price to get things back on track. Especially with sponsorship deals and pay per view subscriptions positively flooding in. They’ll cover the cost and then some in less than a fortnight. It’s a perfectly simple premise. Instead of the usual mind numbingly boring run up to an election with empty vacuous interviews and public appearances crammed with the usual empty niceties, there will be the same things but you’ll know that they’ll be leading to a fight to the death.
Any candidate wishing to run for office north of the border will have their names entered into some sort of lovely hat. From said hat the tributes will be selected. The lucky winners of the honour will be given time to train and provided with perfectly loving and enthusiastic mentors who will grant them the learning and encouragement that will surely spur them on to greater success. Then someone or other will dope them up with a buttload of tranquillisers, dump them in some field or other and leave them to scrap it out to the death. Oh, and they’ll throw in a bear. You know, to raise the stakes a little.
Then a glorious victor will emerge and he or she shall be crowned King of Scotland (which shall henceforth be a unisex title no matter what the haters might have to say about it). Their word shall be utter and total law. If they want to make Scotland one hundred per cent thoroughly independent and keep all their oil and the pound to boot, they will. Then in five years or so they’ll have another bloodbath to prove that they deserve to hang onto their rulership. Or otherwise. Go on, try and deny that’s not a much better way of doing elections.
With the benefit of blessed hindsight, it’s safe to say that they really shouldn’t have asked Mrs Ferguson to ‘just hop on’ to the scales. It was nothing more than a perfectly routine checkup; a few standard questions, review of current medications and monitoring of blood pressure and other vital statistics. She was ashamed, it’s true. She had been at the mince pies and double cream and that, it’s been a highly indulgent season, I’m sure you can understand. It’s entirely reasonable for someone to get a little defensive about the extra padding that’s suddenly accumulated on one’s cake shelf, their muffin top, their love handles, whatever your chosen term for such unsightly body wobbles may be.
What isn’t completely clear is how precisely she managed to get her hands on that shotgun. A pistol or side arm might have been easily stowed in a handbag. Something that little more collapsible could have fit in a capacious shopping bag of some variety. But that weapon she started wielding with increasingly wild and desperate energy came seemingly from absolutely nowhere at all. Such questions would have to be addressed later as the lives of the nurse, the doctor who had been called in a for a second opinion and several patients in the waiting room were all at stake.
Of course things were resolved in a thoroughly festive way but at this cheerful time of year we really ought to have a care for those less fortunate than ourselves. Those with woefully slow metabolisms and people with an especial weakness for Christmas pudding and all those accompaniments that make turkey actually special. So don’t make poke fun at people with expanding waistlines, make snide comments or oh so hilarious jokes. Mainly because you never know when such talk is going to push someone over the edge and cause them to point a loaded lethal weapon directly at your face.
Ah Christmas, coming as it does, with astonishingly relentless punctuality, but once each and every year. And we all know full well what comes with Christmas now don’t we? That’s right, more food than you’ll eat during the entire month of January and the opportunity to exhibit one’s tinsel based tastelessness. I’m coming across as something of a humbug, aren’t I? I’m really terribly sorry, you’ve got me all wrong. I really do rather love the festive season, it’s quite the best. So what does absolutely anything I’ve said so far have to do with the business of building me up, buttercup? Well, hold your horses and wait one cotton picking minute my dear, we’re only just getting there.
It’s presents. It’s always about the presents at this time of year. Isn’t that what all the panic driven shopping was about yesterday and the day before that (not that I was out and about doing any of course. I was sitting smugly at home with all my gifts under wraps)? What are people going to get me? Have I matched them near enough in terms of heartwarmingness and value? Do I have back ups to hand just in case I didn’t? What if they get me something I truly despise? If that’s what they think I like then what does that say about me as a person? Am I thinking about this a little too much?
It’s all about expectations. Dropping the odd hint about stuff you might enjoy and, if all else fails and you don’t trust the judgement of those around you, telling people what you want to receive from them. But then there are those who like to surprise, who purchase mystery gifts in the hope that they’d invoke that extra bit of surprise. Is there any way to truly surprise people for those? Probably not, but try nonetheless. Merry Christmas.