Oh man, that's the last time I leave London: I step outside
and bam, bubonic plague. Symptoms of bubonic plague include,
but are not limited to, vomiting, nausea, more vomiting,
feeling sick at having to push the lumpy bits through the
sinkhole because it was nearer than the toilet, egg-like
testicles and armpits, more nasty itchy peely stuff, and
death within four days. With three days left, I have to
admit I'm a little worried, but I'm trying to remain
optimistic, and I'm confident I can beat this thing. It
hurts. It hurts a lot, but the emotional pain is far worse
as I feel I've been let down by... well, everyone who ever
told me there was no chance I'd ever catch the plague. I'd
cry but they're only going to pump me full of saline
solution when I finally decide to go to hospital.
One thousand years after the Judeo-Christian armageddon
which wiped out all of humanity and un peu d'inhumanity the
Great Fire of London broke out - much like the Chicago Fire,
but east a bit. An ungoogled number of years prior to the
fire, bubonic plague broke out across Europe - much like the
Chicago Fire, but east a bit and with the emphasis more on
plague than fire. Just as paper beats rock, so fire beats
plague. Six people died in the fire, compared with more than
six who died in the plague; just as you can't make an
omelette without breaking eggs, adding cheese and whichever
vegetables you want, seasoning to taste... well, not to
taste because that'd mean eating raw egg, which is only good
if you're a pregnant elderly and infirm child, then frying,
before browning the top in a preheated oven, so you can't
cure plague without sending six people to a crispy painful
grave and burning down London in its entirety, bar one
little girl's diary and Samuel Pepys' teddy bear.
All of which is fine for the present day inhabitants of our
nation's capital, or inhabitants of anywhere not in
plague-ridden Europe, but puts a bit of a dampener on
proceedings for the rest of us, including people like me who
pretend they live in London and then left London and caught
the plague. "Oh you've got bubonic plague and are spreading
it to everyone to come into contact with? Fantastic. Cough."
Three days to go before I die of plague, and the only cure
is to burn everything around me. Come here, let me pour
petrol on you. "Oh you're going to pour petrol on me and set
alight to it so you don't have bubonic plague anymore?
Fantastic. Aieeee." Oops, rather personal and nasty. Ah
well, at least I'll still be alive in three days. Toodle pip
old bean.