No sign of life-threatening germs yet at London Acres. But from my upper balcony, across the meadows in the far distance I can see the granite outline of Penryn. Even this small Cornish town is now encrusted with Swine Flu.I've been finding out what to do about H1N1. One idea seems to be to stay in, avoiding everybody in the world until the middle of next year. Though I'm not the most sociable being, I find that a bit of a dull prospect. On the web of course, there's masses of advice on staying healthy; if you followed it all you'd end up being the fittest you've ever been. We're also told, Corporal Jones-style, not to panic. There are helplines and e-doctors to assist us; I wonder how much calls cost?There'll be plenty of the new Tamiflu wonder-drug to go round. No-one will be kept short. But hang on - Tamiflu won't cure us. It only alleviates symptoms, so if proprietary drugs are cheaper (is Tamiflu free?) we might as well buy Asda Smart Price paracetamol. Except, that would involve going out.
At least Salman Rushdie should be alright.
American forces recently ended their permanent presence in Iraq's major cities. A grateful Iraqi government promptly declared the pullback National Sovereignty Day.
America's work is done; the world's policeman is moving on. Iraqi authorities are set to take full control of the new democracy. At last, stability has arrived in the region; all calm on the streets, all contracts in place. Hollywood is standing by.
The exact phrase used by the US administration for its exit strategy is 'pulling out'. Well excuse the vernacular but to many people, pulling out is what you do when you've fucked something.
According to United Nations statistics meanwhile, Baghdad is now considered safer then Mogadishu. Mission accomplished, then.
He flew so high. The whole world is in mourning over the Prince of Pop's premature passing. A truly great musician (couldn't play an instrument), extraordinary vocals (annoying), peerless dancer (OK, fair enough). Away on a pile of prescription drugs, allegedly. No more unusual antics with his little friends, or inevitable acquittals. No more contractual obligation albums. Aged just fifty, Michael Joseph Jackson has died.
Tickets for his final comeback tour, now cancelled of course, are becoming collectible. Refund or souvenir? It's a difficult choice to make.
Those left out of his will are transparently bitter, their greedy, furious eyes captured by the never-ending media coverage. Now wait for the shameless fight over the cash machine: album and media royalties, merchandising, music rights.
Already, RIP memorabilia has mushroomed. We can choose from T-shirts, badges, posters, even fridge magnets. Oh, and watch out for circulation-boosting conspiracy theories peddled by the fourth estate.
The poor lad. For years, he hadn't looked himself.
No sign of life-threatening germs yet at London Acres. But from my upper balcony, across the meadows in the far distance I can see the granite outline of Penryn. Even this small Cornish town is now encrusted with Swine Flu.
