Sick sick sick

Just as I suspected, spending 8 hours sealed into an aircraft with hundreds of others people’s germs, farts and opinions does you absolutely no good. I am now spewing bile like a high pressure hose from my nose, mouth, ears and tear ducts. I’ve spent the last two days slouched like a paraplegic on the sofa begging to be euthanised in the quickest manner available. Each passing moment feels like I’m being orally raped with a sandpaper covered chainsaw.

To add an additional layer of cack to this shit sandwich, the universal law of chance has bummed me once more by requiring me to fly again tomorrow morning, with no chance of reprieve. At some unearthly hour of the morning I must drag myself to the airport, no doubt leaving a slug like trail of mucus behind me as I go. This time I’m destined for Mumbai, home to the Gateway to India, the famous Juhu beach and one of the highest cholera rates in the world. I was there in January and spent roughly 98% of the time stuck in traffic, the sheer volume of which seemed to be the only thing keeping anyone in a vehicle alive. At any moment when actual movement was possible, at least ten motorbikes, cars or motorised vegetable trays would make a suicidal leap for the available space. Traffic lights, road signs and other desperate measures to control drivers were openly mocked.

What struck me most about Mumbai though was the sheer, ball shrinking poverty. You could absolutely be forgiven for assuming that the national sport is lying by the side of the road and starving to death. They could challenge anyone at this, the kids there are all into it.

Anyway, back to my problems. The hideousness of this 9 hour journey by itself is enough to turn the stomach, but combine it with the chronic sickness I’m so cowardly suffering through and I can genuinely not trust myself to repeatedly crush my head between the back of the seat and the dinner tray until either unconsciousness or death. The only option was to go to the doctors, something I normally avoid at all costs, fearing both mandated man on man touching and the potential for having my allotted whining time cut short with medicine.

So this was my first trip to a doctor in Switzerland and it turned out to be a productive one. I had forgotten of course, that over here everything is paid for by the insurance companies, so it is within the interests of the people treating you to offer as much treatment as possible.

The blood test for a throat infection seemed over the top, but I was instantly appeased when he began to fill out the prescription form for drug after drug after sweet, pain relieving drug. I decided to push my luck.


“Did I mention I’m taking a long flight tomorrow?”, I nonchalantly enquired.

“Oh really, Herr Cook?”.

“Yes, and I am just terrified of flying. I think I might need a little something to, err, help me 'relax'”.

I didn’t go so far as to use air commas but I reckon I definitely could have gotten away with it.

“Well why didn’t you say so Sir. I’ll go get you the good shit”.


So tomorrow I shall be blissfully flying in more than one sense on my way to Asia, no doubt sensing profound messages being conveyed by whatever shitty chick flick they are showing and asking overly personal questions to the poor bastard who has to sit next to me.