I write this from my death bed.
Well, it’s not really a bed. I am far too ill for a conventional bed. Instead, I am located within my purpose built man-cave.
Today I have man-flu.
Man-flu is the most debilitating illness known to, well, man. It is very fair to say that there’s not a woman alive who could ever appreciate the awfulness of man-flu. Sure, women go on about the agonies of childbirth and that sort of thing. They do this forgetting that we men know all about the ladies in far off lands who work in the fields. They feel the onslaught of childbirth, lean against a tree for a few minutes, have the child, wrap it in clothing to hold it on their back, and get on with their work.
We men know that there is no agony to childbirth, and the whole myth is put around by women in the Western world in order to try to deflect from giving men any sympathy and attention during bouts of man-flu.
Proper women, women who care, understand and want to help.
As man-flu starts the symptoms of muscle aches and tired eyes will slowly envelop the poor victim. A good woman seeing this should immediately start to offer comforting words and noises. She should offer to help build the man-cave, bring drinks, tv remotes, games consoles, and line up the DVDs full of football games and mild pornography.
A good woman will not react to the snapping and grinch-like wailing from the victim of man-flu, but should accept that he doesn’t really think she is a stupid annoying bitch, but the words he is saying are part of the delirium of man-flu.
Man-flu has no real antidote. It has to be ridden out in the man-cave. The woman’s job is to bring an endless supply of hot drinks, beer, and whatever he feels he can eat, like pizza for example.
I am blessed with the most wonderful woman. She knows to knock on the door before entering the room where I have built my man-cave, and to mop my brow whilst offering all forms of consumable remedies to help relieve the sheer agony and incomparable pain of man-flu.
She even got me this marvellous bottle of the ‘ultimate swift comfort drink’, pictured sitting on my comfort blanket in my man-cave. I can drink it like a shot directly from the bottle or my lovely woman will happily heat it up in a mug for me to hold and sip from as I weep. The Man-Flu potion says it ‘contains no artificial comfort or sympathy’, which is exactly what those suffering from terminal man-flu need to hear. What a wonderful help the Man-Flu potion has been as I count down the hours to oblivion. (More at manflu.com)
My lovely woman knows that, “Fuck off, leave me alone, stop fussing, bitch!” means the complete opposite, but I am terminally ill so this is the kind of thing we say as we slip in and out of unparalleled self-pity. She understands, and so goes and gets another comfort blanket for me to wrap around myself.
“Where’s the cat? Why hasn’t the cat come to see me? Why does the cat hate me? Is the cat avoiding me because it can sense I’m near death?” will send my gorgeous lady off digging around the bushes and hedgerow in the stormy rain in order to grab the cat and bring it in.
Finally releasing the cat in my man-cave will result in it immediately running out of the room. “The cat hates me. The cat hates me,” I will wail as my lady sympathetically mops my brow as her soaking wet hair drips onto the floor.
So, that’s it then. I am growing weaker. I know they say that nobody dies from man-flu, but I can’t believe that’s true. Any moment now my snuffle could be my last one.
Please feel obliged to give me lots of sympathy in my final moments. Thank you.
England's England 