It’s next year already.
My new years celebrations weren’t all that to be honest. On New Years Eve Eve I went out for a couple of drinks in the afternoon, and by the evening I was ill. Very ill. Very very very ill.
Me and my drinking friend only had two pints and two bags of crisps, but we both came down with nasty stomach lurgy.
Oddly, the crisps we bought were posh, for pub crisps anyway, Walkers Sensations Salt and pepper ones (and not cheap at 70p)
But (and how we laughed at the time) both packs tasted of normal walkers Roast Chicken flavour.
It was only some hours later when in bed and too weak to even move that the laughing stopped.
I spent that night in fitful feverish sleep, frequently waking and freezing cold, even though my radiator was on whatever setting maximum is, I can’t be too sure as the indicators got painted over long before my time. But it was on hot, and I was cold.
I woke up on New Years Eve and 9:30am, but was genuinely to weak to get out of bed until about 5pm.
By lunchtime I knew I was going to die.
There was a lump on my back – could I have a bedsore already? I checked, it felt like a bite… a mosquito bite? Oh god… it must be malaria.
Even worse, I’d only returned from being home for Christmas a couple of days before to our London flat which had been empty for a week or two (haha, missed a trick there burglars… Leaving the light on fooled you didn’t it – you fools) When I opened the door that had not been gazed upon by human eyes for 14 days, the dust choked me and in the flat I noticed a few mosquitoes. They had been left untouched by the rest of the world for all this time, and as they only live for a couple of days or something, there was a potential seven generations of genetic evolution and mutation going on inside this little mites.
I had genetically mutated Malaria… I wasn’t going to die – I was probably going to become a zombie or something.
I drifted back into sleep, one time mustering enough energy to wee and grab my phone. No one had called or texted me… I was going to die alone.
I slept some more wondering if I could still see it in me to go the club for new years that I’d paid £16 for a ticket for. £16? Seems like a lot to waste – but what price a mans life?
It was only when I reawoke that I realised… I must be a victim, the roast chicken flavoured crisps… it must be bird flu.
Oh the ignominy, after years working at being a comedian I would finally find fame by being the first person in Europe to die of Bird flu (unless my friend beat me to it) and probably would be responsible for sealing off Islington for a few weeks. not a bad thing.
I tried to write a will, but upon realising I had nothing to give anyone I just went back to sleep.
By 3pm I was feeling better and had enough energy to get out of bed and have a cup of tea.
By 4pm I was hungry again – maybe I am superhuman, immune to both genetically mutilated malaria and bird flu. I went to Sainsbury’s (which was horrendously busy, like all of Islington were scared that the shops were going to be shut for a month (or sealed off)).
After feeling so bad it would surely be sensible to maybe eat something light and healthy. But for some unknown reason I had a craving.
A craving for Chicken Fajitas.
So I bought the lot… and it was lovely.
But chicken probably not sensible after a bout of bird flu.
I dragged myself out for a couple of hours that night, not feeling all the well, but being fully aware that sitting in on your own watching Jools Holland’s Hootenanny is the most depressing moment of the year, and unfortunate enough to straddle two years.
I got back in at 2am and went back to bed.
Happy new year…
By 8pm I was hungry and wondering if I did have enough energy to go out. I went to Sainsbury’s