AN EXTRACT FROM
COVID CHRONICLES
The Secret Diary of a Lazy Cow in Lockdown
Written by David Tristram
15th March
Nightmare scenario.
Doris has developed a slight tickle in the throat, so she’s sent off for three home testing kits for Covid – one for her, one for me, and one for Jack.
I’ve told her, there’s no way I’m poking anything down my throat again – not after the incident with the DJ when I was 18 – but she’s insisting. She says she won’t come to my house again until I test negative, which practically makes her Hitler. Well, it does in my book, and this is my book.
16th March
The home testing kit was designed by Frankenstein.
The moment the swab stick hit the back of my tongue I projectile-vomited and spat it straight into the kitchen sink. Exactly the same as happened before with that DJ. And to compound matters, the sink was full of soapy water and bleach, so I doubt even NCIS could get a result from that.
18th March
What a bloody farce.
Having gone through all the rigmarole of home testing, then comes the Laurel and Hardy moment. Apparently, the same day that Doris sent for the Covid tests, Jack had his NHS bowel cancer testing kit come through the post.
Suffice it to say, various bits and pieces were left on the kitchen table for a few days, and communication became blurred. Doris meekly admitted to me afterwards that there was a “slight chance” that Jack may have got some of the samples mixed up when he posted them off.
The consequences don’t bear thinking about. It’s possible that the lab technician may think that Jack’s arse has got a new variant of Covid. Or, even worse still, that one of his bowel samples was found up my nose.
Let’s just hope that there wasn’t a cock-up. Otherwise the next 24 hours could be interesting.
Whatever happens, this mustn’t spoil my plans. It’s World Sleep Day tomorrow, and I intend to celebrate in style.
19th March
Just woke up to a phone call from the NHS.
They’re sending a helicopter to get me. The woman on the other end kept telling me to stay calm. I was calm.
I told Doris to call the NHS. This is her mess, she can get me out of it.
On the plus side though, I was thinking of treating myself to a helicopter ride for my birthday, so this might save me a hundred quid.
20th March
What a stupid day yesterday was.
After about five hours on the phone, followed by a quick impromptu press conference, Doris finally sorted out the confusion.
I did get my helicopter ride, but I had to share it with two blokes in full Chernobyl-style nuclear fall-out protective suits – the sort of thing they wore when all the scientists came to get ET. And, of course, they made me wear one as well. They certainly weren’t taking any chances with this new strain of Arse Covid. When we landed, three minutes later, half the world’s press were waiting for me.
When Doris had explained everything, they quickly lost interest in me, and the hospital said I had to get the bus back. Bollocks to that. I made Doris phone Jack to come and pick me up in the car.
I kept the nuclear-waste protective suit, though. It might come in handy if I ever have to do my own shopping. Cloth face masks make me feel a bit claustrophobic, but the full headgear gives you a bit more breathing space. There’d be room to smoke a pipe in there. Or even vape, if you were that way inclined.
Actually, I reckon all smokers should be made to wear them, for the sake of the rest of us. There could perhaps be a little exhaust pipe at the back so they didn’t totally die, but otherwise it’d clean up the environment nicely.
It would also put paid to the notion that smoking makes you look cool, because wearing a full bio-hazard suit in a pub or nightclub isn’t usually a great look.
21st March
Doris’s cough seems better now.
But she won’t let the topic drop – the woman’s become obsessed. She’s now insisting that we both have the jab, and she’s even booked me in online at Bilston Methodist Church to have one of the Vauxhall Astra vaccines.
I’m in two minds, both of which say no.
Nightmare scenario.
Doris has developed a slight tickle in the throat, so she’s sent off for three home testing kits for Covid – one for her, one for me, and one for Jack.
I’ve told her, there’s no way I’m poking anything down my throat again – not after the incident with the DJ when I was 18 – but she’s insisting. She says she won’t come to my house again until I test negative, which practically makes her Hitler. Well, it does in my book, and this is my book.
16th March
The home testing kit was designed by Frankenstein.
The moment the swab stick hit the back of my tongue I projectile-vomited and spat it straight into the kitchen sink. Exactly the same as happened before with that DJ. And to compound matters, the sink was full of soapy water and bleach, so I doubt even NCIS could get a result from that.
18th March
What a bloody farce.
Having gone through all the rigmarole of home testing, then comes the Laurel and Hardy moment. Apparently, the same day that Doris sent for the Covid tests, Jack had his NHS bowel cancer testing kit come through the post.
Suffice it to say, various bits and pieces were left on the kitchen table for a few days, and communication became blurred. Doris meekly admitted to me afterwards that there was a “slight chance” that Jack may have got some of the samples mixed up when he posted them off.
The consequences don’t bear thinking about. It’s possible that the lab technician may think that Jack’s arse has got a new variant of Covid. Or, even worse still, that one of his bowel samples was found up my nose.
Let’s just hope that there wasn’t a cock-up. Otherwise the next 24 hours could be interesting.
Whatever happens, this mustn’t spoil my plans. It’s World Sleep Day tomorrow, and I intend to celebrate in style.
19th March
Just woke up to a phone call from the NHS.
They’re sending a helicopter to get me. The woman on the other end kept telling me to stay calm. I was calm.
I told Doris to call the NHS. This is her mess, she can get me out of it.
On the plus side though, I was thinking of treating myself to a helicopter ride for my birthday, so this might save me a hundred quid.
20th March
What a stupid day yesterday was.
After about five hours on the phone, followed by a quick impromptu press conference, Doris finally sorted out the confusion.
I did get my helicopter ride, but I had to share it with two blokes in full Chernobyl-style nuclear fall-out protective suits – the sort of thing they wore when all the scientists came to get ET. And, of course, they made me wear one as well. They certainly weren’t taking any chances with this new strain of Arse Covid. When we landed, three minutes later, half the world’s press were waiting for me.
When Doris had explained everything, they quickly lost interest in me, and the hospital said I had to get the bus back. Bollocks to that. I made Doris phone Jack to come and pick me up in the car.
I kept the nuclear-waste protective suit, though. It might come in handy if I ever have to do my own shopping. Cloth face masks make me feel a bit claustrophobic, but the full headgear gives you a bit more breathing space. There’d be room to smoke a pipe in there. Or even vape, if you were that way inclined.
Actually, I reckon all smokers should be made to wear them, for the sake of the rest of us. There could perhaps be a little exhaust pipe at the back so they didn’t totally die, but otherwise it’d clean up the environment nicely.
It would also put paid to the notion that smoking makes you look cool, because wearing a full bio-hazard suit in a pub or nightclub isn’t usually a great look.
21st March
Doris’s cough seems better now.
But she won’t let the topic drop – the woman’s become obsessed. She’s now insisting that we both have the jab, and she’s even booked me in online at Bilston Methodist Church to have one of the Vauxhall Astra vaccines.
I’m in two minds, both of which say no.