“She’s dry as a witch’s tit, sir!” Some bank holiday cheer for anyone feeling a little under the weather…
For the last 48 hours, I’ve been at war. However placid I may be in my natural state, when invaded by germs hell-bent on turning my internals into that green goo from Dr Who, I tend to kick off. For a while there, it looked as if they had the upper hand: First, they came for my voice, next for my nose and lungs, and then, while I was rushing about tending to these, they came for my bottom. However, what they hadn’t banked on was my British resilience in the face of extreme adversity. That, like any great military strategist, I could and would play the long game, feigning weakness and ineptitude when, in fact, I was building up to a mighty show of strength which would conclusively put them to rout. Something like this:
Germ A: He’s going into the bathroom, men! Weakest to the fore!!! WEAKEST TO THE FORE!!!
Germ B: It’s ok, sir! He’s only having a huey in the sink. No great loss.
Germ A: Right. Get a message over to Nasal Production without delay. We’re going for a massive push in ten.
Germ B: He’s got a new loo roll by the bed! They’ll be toast in seconds. If Bottom Bay gets cracking now, we stand more of a chance of catching him off guard when he goes back in.
Germ A: How many rolls?
Germ B: Not sure, sir. Maybe we should send a few privates up to the throat? They can have a quick butchers when he’s bent over the khazi.
Germ A: Too risky. We’re down on mucus and we’ll need everything we have for when he starts necking the Benylin.
Germ B: Benylin, sir?
Germ A: Yes, bloody Benylin!!! It was on the sideboard.
Germ B: That changes the rules somewhat. How long do you think we have?
Germ A: Long enough to play merry hell with his bottom. Now get on with it!
Germ B: Germ B to Bottom Bay, Germ B to Bottom Bay, open all sluice gates now. I repeat, open sluice gates now!
Bottom Bay: Bottom Bay to Germ B, Bottom Bay to Germ B. We have a problem. The gates are wide but there’s nowt coming out. Urgently request reinforcements from Chest and/or Throat Depts. She’s dry as a witch’s tit, sir!
Germ B: MAYDAY!!! MAYDAY!!! ALL MUCUS ZONES TO PROCEED TO BOTTOM BAY AT ONCE. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!!! DO NOT HANG ABOUT!!!
Germ A: He’s got quilted!!! Bail out now!!!
Germ B: Too late! I’ve instructed all departments to head south.
Germ A: Oh my good God! It’s done. He was too good for us this time. Give my regards to your wife and family and should we survive, perhaps a drink at the Criterion when it’s all over?
Germ B: Indeed. And may I say it was an honour to serve under you?
Germ A: You may. Goodbye, B.
Germ B: Goodbye, sir.