Shut your porkhole

I have had just about as much as I can take of all the H1N1 talk.

Henceforth there shall be no more swine flu gags any time someone sneezes, or coughs, or sniffles, or says they feel sick, or says they feel cold, or makes any remark whatsoever about their personal wellbeing.

There shall be no daily London victim tally when I get to work in the morning, and nobody shall speak of the aporkalypse over dinner – especially in public spaces, i.e. restaurants. I do not care that a 22-year-old man in Barnet is currently in hospital with It Which Shall Not Be Named. I do not want to know about the honeymooning couple in Edinburgh either. 12,000 people in England are killed by regular flu every year. Do you see me chalking up those numbers on the office wall every fucking day?

There shall be no recommendations that I wear a facemask, and no reminders to wash my hands. I already have a hand-washing fixation bordering on obsessive compulsive, I don’t need the threat of the Baconic Plague to push me over the antiseptic edge. And let it be known that the first person I see in London wearing a facemask is getting a smack.

The one thing that is still acceptable is, of course, swine flu punning (e.g. if you get a rasher put some oinkment on it, it’s Parmageddon, watch out for hamthrax, etc). In fact, it is an activity that I thoroughly endorse. Best swine flu pun left in the comments wins a prize. I don’t know what that prize is yet, but it will be good. It may also be themed.

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