Every Day I’m Snuffling

It’s only mid-September but it’s started. The first of many colds I shall contract in the cooler months has defeated my feeble immune system and I’ve well and truly become its bitch. A headache, heavy eyes, itchy inner ear, shivers; I can handle all that. The one thing that does my head right in is the snot. My nose is running, and this is no hyperbole, like Niagara Falls…only with mucus, not water…and there’s no one in a barrel getting all extreme and radical. And before you people of the female persuasion start muttering, ‘Pah, it’s man-flu’; it bloody well isn’t. It’s at least Superman or Batman flu, my dripping snot is burning holes in stuff. This could well be my last rant in this world, you wait and see. Then you’ll be sorry.

I quite literally get psychotic over the amount of snot that leaves my face; where the hell does it all come from? The expletives that accompany the dashed search for something to stem the flow are quite creative though. So far I have said ‘wobbly-shag’, ‘shitting fence post’ and ‘twatty balloon knees’ to name but three. I’ve gone through a 24 pack of toilet rolls; two gallons of blackcurrant juice, a dozen lemons and enough honey to OD Pooh Bear…in less than 12 hours. It sucks big time…or maybe that should be, it blows big time? I haven’t left the house because I know for sure that as soon as I meet someone I know and strike up a conversation my nose will leak. And it’s not slow. The viscosity is such that before I can even twitch to grab a tissue it has left my nostril, traversed my lips and is dripping off my chin. To me, it is literally one of the most embarrassing things that can happen. (Now I’ve grown past the age of bus erections, that is.)

I read somewhere, or someone told me, or I subconsciously made it up and think I read it somewhere, that there are only around 100 strains of the common cold; and once you have caught a cold of that unique strain, you are immune to getting that particular version ever again. Bollocks. I must have had, without a word of a lie, at least 10,000 colds over the years. I reckon the virus moves in, invites its mates over and then they have an orgy to see how many crossed variants of themselves they can create inside me. Bastards. Due to this cross-pollination sex romp I have can have a 24hour cold for a fortnight.

(Just for the record I am having to blow my nose every other sentence writing this, so I hope you appreciate my sacrifice.)

‘Oh, it’s just a cold.’ How often have we all heard that? Well, let me put this to the great medical minds of the world. If it’s just a cold, why haven’t you just fucking cured it yet?! I’ll tell you why, because it’s not rock ‘n’ roll enough for the gits to spend their time on. They all want to cure one of the biggies, something that would come with a Nobel gong, not just a double thumbs up. And yes, I can understand why it is important to chase down the cures for serious illnesses but at this moment I’ve got a cold and I want it to piss off…and piss off now. Give me a tablet so I can stop blowing huge, yellow nostril bubbles, the size of space hoppers, with the tacky stream of my own dead cells exiting my face.

And another thing, under the orders of my Mum (not to be disobeyed lightly) I have been taking garlic tablets every day for months in an effort to fend off exactly what I am suffering with, so very, very direly, now. But it looks like witchcraft doesn’t work either…not that I will be suggesting such a thing to my Mum; she’d be over to mine on her broomstick in a flash and I’d end my days living on a lily pad. (She won’t read this, I’m okay.)

Sadly, I will have to admit I have reluctantly joined the ranks of cyberchondriacs in a desperate attempt to alleviate the critical (highly possibly terminal) ailment that is turning my keyboard into a prop from ‘Ghost Busters’. The conclusion I reached via this self-diagnosis route is that Google is no better than the doctors, not a fucking clue. I did, however, glean one gem of information, it was about making sure I keep hydrated; drink lots of fluids on a regular basis. A system I implemented immediately upon reading it.

So far I have drunk, each in the medically required pint measure: St Peter’s Ruby Red, Woodforde’s Admiral’s Revenge; Cooper’s Devil’ Half, Milestone Lion’s Pride, Munton’s Hand Crafted Oaked Ale and two pints of Woodforde’s Wherry…because I’m wherry, wherry ill (I’m also a sucker for puns). My conclusion? This self-medication lark rocks!

The result is I feel much better. My nose is still running like Mr Bolt’s and Mr Farah’s lovechild but now I don’t give a toss so much. I’m not pseudo-swearing anymore and, somewhere under the mask of dried snot, there’s a slight smile on my face. I may not have found a cure for the common cold – without wasting many years at medical school, I might add – but I have found a biological, organic, psychosomatic countering agent in beer. Maybe I could bottle it and sell it…no, wait…has that been done?

I’ll have to go, it’s time for some more medication…and a little singing…‘Roll out the barrel…’