You better not contract the Ebola Virus on a Saturday. You won’t find a doctor anywhere. They are carving pheasant in rustic kitchen stroke dining areas, their perfect families looking on with expectant, hungry eyes. So don't fall ill at the weekend, your doctor always has something better to do.
Forget logging onto the internet and browsing the medical message boards for consolation – because, before long, you will be convinced you are about to die. Do not heed the warnings of international hypochondriacs…they will terrify you with their tales of medical malpractice and mysterious boils that go pop in the night.
It happened to Darrel from Maryland and it could happen to you. His right bollock dropped out of his hiking shorts while he was hillwalking. It was last seen heading south to Dixie pursued by three hicks in a blue Chevy pick-up truck. They don’t like strangers or stranger’s parts in them, there parts.
It’s Saturday night and you really don’t fancy waiting four hours in A&E with all the drunks and other hypochondriacs so you are going to have to gut it out until emergency surgery on Monday. Right now Death is sitting on your sofa, his skeletal hand rustling a packet of munchies as he peruses the latest Paris Match. He’s in no hurry, he can afford to wait a few minutes. You have just enough time to hum Jamiroquai’s…’We’re too young to die’ and send a few goodbye texts. Just don’t drink and dial. You may live to face the consequences.