Wednesday, 15 July 2009

Strange Transpirings at Hove Town Hall

Swine flu has reportedly hit our offices. It’s a bloody difficult one I tell ya, especially as the health services refused to treat our probie face-to-face and chose instead to diagnose her over the phone. The fact that Donald Rumsfeld is reportedly the holder of the Tamiflu patent is also raising suspicions here. While there is strong evidence to suggest that people have become very sick with swine flu and, in some cases, unfortunately died as a result it is difficult to judge as to what extent reasonable precaution turns into hysteria. Suffering a long term chronic illness as I do I am eligible to receive Tamiflu, but again was not permitted to see a doctor face-to-face. I had to receive a call from some locum who told me not to turn up at the clinic but that my prescription would be faxed to the Brighton Flu drop-off point which is at Hove Town Hall.

Later that evening I arrived at Hove Town Hall and was met by authoritarian signs telling me to go around the corner and warned me not to make contact or speak to anyone along the way. The sight that met me in an office, not unlike the one you got to get your parking permits from, was worthy of a Hogarth etching. The whol ambience felt as if some bastard had unleashed a Zombie virus on the good burghers of Hove, with a general sense of panic and excitement thick in the air. I had not be told by the locum that I would need to assign a “flu friend”, a trusted individual to pick up my drugs in my stead, as it was not permitted for the actually recipient to pick up their own prescription.

A detergent bottle, for washing was placed on each counter and draconian messages with all kinds of commands where plastered on the walls. Behind me a gang of middle class folk, thieves, degenerates and grubby looking urchins, squawked, grumbled and wept.

‘Look, there is clearly nothing wrong with me,’ I said with a wide smile, in an effort to calm the individual behind bullet proof glass, who seemed to be in the teeth of fear itself.

After being given a raffle ticket I awaited for around an hour before being presented with some strange pills whose effects are largely unknown. The only sound at this point was the song the Lincolnshire Poacher, which was being piped through the P.A system, over and over again.

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