Annual Conference for Infectious Diseases

Boyle: tried - and failed - to shite out the Conference from her colon.

Boyle: tried – and failed – to shite out the Conference from her colon.

The ‘Transmittable Infectious and Contagious Viruses and Diseases League’ last week held its annual general conference, this time inside Susan Boyle’s colon, its glittering new venue. The chairman thanked all of the attendees, and then read out apologies for those who couldn’t make it, most notably ME, who just couldn’t be arsed turning up. ‘She shouldn’t even be in this fucking league anyway!’ shouted an angry Meningitis.

Proceedings got off to a solemn start as Swine Flu took to the stage with a heart-felt lament on the impermanence of power and status.

‘I used to be a big noise,’ sighed Swine Flu. ‘I guess I believed the hype, got carried away with the headlines. Millions dead, they said, and I believed them. When I was a little germ, I used to run around my cell pretending that I was Spanish Flu – God rest his soul – thinking I’d grow up to be just like him. In the end, I was nothing: little better than Bird Flu.’

The glory days.

The glory days.

Bird Flu was visibly shaken by this perceived slight, and took to the podium in a rage, ejecting Swine Flu and immediately going on the offensive. ‘You’re God damn right you were nothing, you shit-snouting pig-fucker. All that big talk, striding about Mexico with your wee dong out, and what did you achieve? A few dead Mexicans, and a couple of newlyweds in Falkirk got a dose of the sniffs and a new conservatory from Max Clifford. The fucking Cold has kicked more ass than you, son.’

‘Here, here!’ yelled the Cold. ‘And while I’ve got your attention, don’t any of you ever call me ‘common’ again. I live in a semi-detached in the suburbs, for Christ sake!’

At this point the Bubonic Plague interjected and appealed for calm, but he, too, fell foul of Bird Flu’s fury: ‘I’ll not be lectured to by a has-been. The last time you were a big player the coffins that took your victims away were pulled down gas-lit streets on horseback, rat boy!’

‘Respect your elders!’ screamed chicken pox, to loud approval from most of the audience.

‘Fuck off, you measly wee bastard!’ screamed Bird Flu. ‘Wee bit of Calpol’s enough to send you packing; not exactly Kryptonite is it, son? You’re about as deadly as a dose of the shites.’

Swine Flu, still smarting from Bird Flu’s attack, returned to his feet to issue a stinging rebuke: ‘At least we’ve learned to adapt to our new status, unlike others I could mention. You still think the world owes you a dying, you swan-killing loser!’

Queen protests cover of Chemical Brothers new album.

Queen protests cover of Chemical Brothers new album.

At this point, Bird Flu’s face changed to a deep scarlet. ‘LOSER? Fucking LOSER, is it? I brought the world to its knees, and it’s still on them. I use birds, and birds can get everywhere, so you‘ve not heard the last of Bird Flu, son, I can assure you of that. YOU never managed to bridge the species gap and go human to human, so how are your bloody pigs going to manage to get out there and infect the world? They going to swim across from Mexico, you arsehole? Hmmm? I’ll tell you when you can talk to me like an equal, son: when pigs fucking fly!’

By this time, the mood in the audience was electric with anger. ‘Oh, has the wee baw-bag not got anything else to say?’ hectored Bird Flu, clearly relishing his time in the spotlight. ‘No? Beh-the-Th-th-thi-th-th-the that’s all folks! FUCK YOU, you WORM!’

‘Get off!’ hollered Psoriasis. ‘Nobody wants to hear what you’ve got to say!’ At this point there was a scuffle, as Psoriasis was ejected from the conference. This is the fifth year running that Psoriasis has managed to sneak past conference security, each time wearing an ingenious disguise. This time he was disguised as the Ebola Virus (Ebola had been unable to attend the conference, as he’s currently on safari in Kenya).

‘This is discrimination!’ screeched Psoriasis as he was dragged, kicking and screaming, from the hall. ‘You’ll pay for this, you racists!’

Psoriasis? You wish!

Psoriasis? You wish!

‘He’s quite a character, is our Psoriasis,’ said the conference chairman afterwards. ‘Ironically, he’s demonstrated through his persistent, invasive behaviour that he has the heart and spirit of a deadly communicable disease. It’s just a pity that Psoriasis, in addition to not being what we’re looking for, is a really shite ailment. Laughable. Who would we have to take next if we opened our doors to the likes of him? Athlete’s Foot? Please!’

Bird Flu kept spewing his invective, to a chorus of angry caterwauling. Mad Cow Disease was next on the attack. ‘SO YOU PUT THE SHITS UP BERNARD MATTHEWS, DID YOU, BOY? MADE A FEW FARMERS CRY?’ he yelled. ‘WELL I HAD HALF OF FRANCE ON FIRE, AND FARMERS SHOVING LOADED SHOTGUNS INTO THEIR GOBS! I’M A TIME-BOMB, BOY, A GOD DAMN BRAIN-BUGGERING TIME-BOMB!’

A deathly and sudden silence seized the room as the STDs burst into the hall. Their procession was led up the aisle by Lord AIDS, who regarded the non-sexual diseases on either side of him with disdain. His cloak billowed behind him like a sail. The Hepatitis brothers slapped a few terrified faces in the audience as they followed behind their master, a brazen act that caused Legionnaires Disease to faint.

B is for AIDS!

B is for AIDS!

‘Well, well, well,’ smirked Lord AIDS, in a voice that was identical to Patrick Stewart’s. ‘Listen to the minions bicker and squabble over the size of their respective micro-penises. Mine is the kingdom of human weakness, my friends, and my subjects will see me rule in perpetuity. Put simply, I’m the sex-and-drugs answer to cancer’ (bet you never thought you’d hear Captain Picard say that).

Just as Lord AIDS was about to mount the podium, The Cold jumped out from his seat, burst from his row and clamped his arms around the Lord’s legs. The Cold was dragged a few feet before Chlamydia managed to prise him off. ‘My Lord!’ said the Cold, weeping and moaning. ‘I am your humble servant. I would be NOTHING without you, my Lord, NOTHING!’ Lord AIDS looked down at The Cold as if he were nothing more than Cystitis.

Lord AIDS then ascended to the stage and took his place at the podium. He gazed out over the assembled diseases, and started laughing; and that laughter boomed and echoed throughout the room like an explosion. Once he’d finished, he gave a casual shrug of his shoulders and leaned in towards the microphone.

‘AIDS…’ he said in a husky whisper. ‘AIDS.’

No-one spoke for what seemed like an age. Then the silence was broken by an aggrieved Psoriasis, who had sneaked back into the hall.

‘Monkey fucker!’

Memories of Marmaris – Pt 1

The cannibalisation of old material continues. Here’s a few thoughts I jotted down after a trip to Turkey a few years ago. I’m going to Turkey with my girlfriend later this year, a different part, but I enjoyed looking over old notes and reminiscing about all the beauty and sleaze the Turks have to offer holidaymakers in Marmaris – Jamie

 

Memories of Marmaris

Marmaris is a holiday resort in the south west of Turkey. It’s geared towards tourism, but the public transport is accessible enough to allow you to venture forth and enjoy towns, trails and villages off the beaten track. Also, the many excursions on offer by boat, jeep and camel are extremely good value for money, and well worth your time. That being said, it’s time for a bit of horrid honesty, and we’ll leave the wanky travelogue stuff to the late Jill Dando.

Driving Miss Daisy – Off a Cliff

The Turks have some simple, nifty ways to revolutionise the ordinary things we Scots take for granted. For example, Turkish traffic lights don’t bother with all that abstract ‘red, amber, green’ shit. The lights display a timed countdown from red to green. This innovation would be an extremely helpful stress reducer for British drivers, but the Turks seem to use it to measure how many seconds-worth of law they’ve just broken, so they can high-five their mates with the appropriate level of gusto. To say that Turkish drivers are a bunch of maniacs who care nothing for the rules of the road, health and safety, or human life, would be entirely accurate.

Turkish drivers like a bit of anger on the roads. Turkish cars must have four pedals as standard: gas, brake, accelerator and horn. And I’m sure it won’t be long before they fit Bond-style mini-missiles to their front bumpers. It’s little surprise that in 2006, according to data on the UK’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office website, there were over fife-hundred-and-eight-five thousand car accidents in Turkey. This must be a conservative estimate. Perhaps three million of the people sent to survey dangerous driving were killed by dangerous drivers before they had a chance to submit their findings.

Turk in, my son

The sexiest cunt in all of Turkdom

Turkish men walk a fine line between charm and sleaze. The bar folk are undeniably friendly, but in a tourist resort like Marmaris, this could have something to do with their commission-based pay.

Do be prepared to have your girlfriend fawned over in a way that would have you reaching for your knuckle-duster back home. And, yes, it’s true that you’ll see an enormous amount of young Turkish guys ‘courting’ gorgeous young blonde girls (for ‘courting’ read ‘trying every trick in the book in order to make them part of a living, breathing Turkish kebab before the holiday-clock ticks away, so the girl can jet off home thinking they’ve found their prince when in reality he’s already got his todger stuck in another willing waif even before the pilot guns the engine for the flight home’). This is undeniably impressive when you consider that over the summer season most of these Supermen work seven days a week, often twenty hours a day, and still find time to shag a higher quota of girls than most of us will see in a lifetime. I’m impressed, in a kind of amoral way: their wives probably wouldn’t be.

Over summer, a lot of the waiters and bar guys come to Marmaris from the far corners of Turkey to make a bit of money for their families, before totting off home with their genitalia tucked between their legs. Winters are spent as mild-mannered Clark Kents; the kind of guys who love their wives and kids and definitely do NOT shag an army of drunk slags from Essex.

Take THAT, AIDS!!!

A word of caution for the ladies out there: there is a widespread belief among a large section of the male Turkish population that the best way to counteract nasty old AIDS, chlamydia and general knob rot is not to rubber up, but to thoroughly wash your bits afterwards. Yes. We all remember that from Dove’s last advertising campaign: Tom Hanks scrubbing his balls with a bar of soap, and smiling to himself about his new promotion at work. You’re not singing any more, Bruce Springsteen.

But what kind of guys can the ladies expect to meet? I’ve calculated that Turkish workers, especially in the bars, fall in to one of three physical categories: Gay Boyband Turk; Evil Hollywood Movie Turk; and Looks Like a Turkish Version of a Well-Known Celebrity Turk. For example, my very attentive hotel clerk looked like a Turkish David Arquette, and one of the wee waiters at a local restaurant looked like he was plotting to kill Arnold Swarzenegger.

Here, pussy, pussy, pussy

Pussy on a bike

It’s strange to come from a country where cats are pampered and beloved (some rich old British ladies have even been known to leave their vast million pound fortunes to spoiled Persian cats called Tiddles) to one where cats run wild and are even considered by some to be vermin. How cute they are, though. Well, the ones that aren’t horribly diseased and bedraggled, that is. Most of the street cats are considerably smaller than your average domesticated kitty, with tiny little faces and humongous, pointy ears. I always wanted to pat them. I wandered the Turkish streets dispensing a stroke here and a clap there, willing to touch the sick and the hungry, like some kind of Christ of the Cat People. Like a Steve Irwin who deals only with animals tame enough not to skewer him through the heart with a barbed part of their anatomy.

‘Any spare change, pal?’

It is a shame, though. Turkish people don’t appear to be as enlightened as we are when it comes to animals. No real equivalent of our RSPCA seems to exist in Turkey, although animal welfare matters are slowly gaining relevance and importance thanks to the actions of various volunteer and charity organisations. Earlier this year in Marmaris there was outrage over a mass poisoning of street cats by assailants unknown (although the farming community is suspected). Unfortunately, the attempted cull was indiscriminate, and many domestic dogs, cats and other trusty pets bought the farm along with them.

Remember the Turkish men who thought that washing their bits was the best and only defence against AIDS? Well, another widespread belief held by some morons is that ingestion of pet hair can be fatal. This means, ladies, that stroking a cat is the best form of contraception.