A blog about philosophy and that.
TV uninformed opinion-giver Carol McGiffin is entombed in goose. McGiffin, 47, fell foul of the fowl after falling from her
high horse during a farmyard special of Loose Women. The radio DJ, who was married to Chris Evans don’t-you-know, lost her balance after a particularly heated rant about people from foreign countries living in Britain, falling into Goosey’s pen and was greedily swallowed up.
The frustrated divorcee’s favourite rant merchant is being kept alive by a tube inserted down the gullet of the goose feeding her with white wine and nibbles. Sound engineers are working around the clock to allow her voice to be relayed outside the digestive organ. Doctors fear if she is not able to air her harmful opinions soon and indulge her need for self importance, she may die.
Sadly, veterinary science has yet to come up with a safe procedure for human-goose extraction, any attempts to do so will most likely result in the plonk-swiller’s early death. Animal expert Terry Nutkins recommends that the best course of action is to try and coax the bird to release Giffers through poetic persuasion and has called upon all her fans to join in.
Poor Carol McGiffen, a friend in feathered foe,
Once she were free, but now must go where Goosey go,
Carol liked to go a-frolicking with Gosling, Chick and Pullet,
But she fell into Goosey’s feeding pen and ended up down his Gullet,
Oh naughty Goosey, from you one thing we must beg,
Please release our Carol McGiffin, in vomit or in egg.
What would the nation have done with her Special Representative for International Trade and Investment? A post that keeps the 4th in line to the throne so busy eating canopies with Japanese businessmen he can only play a round of golf every other day.
Although I find it hard to believe that the legendary hot-head was “in good spirits” after the incident. This is the chap who once demanded an entire train of commuters be emptied for his personal use after his own Royal locomotive was delayed, who lambasted a police office for wearing a fleece and went doolally at a security guard for asking him to turn out his pockets.
Early reports suggest his golf swing has not been affected.
Thats what I have.
An affliction that is only outranked in the unmanly illness stakes by chicken pox and the sniffles.
After 4 days of awkward swallowing and self-pitied wallowing I dragged myself along to the nurse at the local drop-in health centre to be fixed. It was very efficient, after a brief wait I only needed poked and peered into by two different contraptions before diagnosis was made. Then I was sent on my merry way £6.85 lighter and 10 days of Penicillin lighter.
What fun can be had with Tonsillitis?
I can thing of two THINGS:
1) Visit local nightspots and smooch with as many Loose Women as possible. (Not necessary TV’s favourite hystericals, but anything that silences the most narrow-minded gaggle of reactionary knee-jerkers assembled since the last Parkinson’s Sufferers’ Support Group meeting of the Third Reich is fine by me.) The infectious smooching will give me an insight into the minds of predatory, knowingly STD ridden Greek fisherman who sleep with British half-cut, middle-aged, holiday-making recent divorcees. Perhaps helping academics understand what the bloody hell they think they’re doing.
2) I have stolen the Promethean Fire! With my immune system bolstered by science, I am free to ingest diary products more out of date than the usual 1-2 day safety barrier.
I am off to enjoy a four day out of date Ski yoghurt, peach flavour. If you come up with any other ideas at all for how best to enjoy my tonsillitis, please, let me know.