Contagion

My name is Dave and I am a hypochondriac.

For that reason, and that reason alone, the end of the world scenario that terrifies me most is the threat that we as a race could all be wiped out by a supervirus.

Imagine, if you will, a TV news announcement that describes a potential nasty bug that is spreading from person to person in numerous countries with no hope of recovery. From that point on, I would be totally and utterly convinced that the virus was in my system even if it hadn’t reached the shores of the United Kingdom yet.

In the past, I have been slightly perturbed when newscasters have mentioned benign bugs that are nasty but not lethal, even when they are confined to the deepest parts of Africa, say.

A few years ago there had been an outbreak of the deadly respiratory disease called Sars and it had surfaced in Hong Kong. Thankfully, the authorities had it under control eventually and it was then that my project manager asked me to go on a business trip to the city.  I read that the authorities at the airport were screening people as they came and left using thermal cameras in an attempt to detect elevated temperatures in travellers. I wrestled with my inner hypochondriac who told me in no uncertain terms that I was going to catch the disease even though it was under control. Normally I would have been over the moon to visit my favourite city outside the United Kingdom – but not this time.

Deep down I knew that I would be safe but that didn’t stop the hypochondriac inside whispering to me constantly through the flight: “You will catch Sars – that’s if you don’t have it already.”

The temperature in Hong Kong in the summer is quite a lot higher than the UK and you feel it the moment that you leave the aircraft. Such was my paranoia that I thought the thermal cameras would identify an elevated temperature in me as I walked towards immigration.

Of course, I was being utterly stupid and I passed through without a problem. My trip lasted three weeks, during which time I became an expert in the symptoms of Sars. Every time I felt slightly below par I was convinced that I had succumbed to the disease – even a few weeks after my return to Manchester.

I know that I am an idiot for allowing myself to accede to such moronic paranoia but I can’t help it. I wish I could.

Thus, if I were to ever catch a news report telling me that a deadly disease was spreading across the world, wiping out everybody who came into contact with it, I would probably worry myself to death months before the infection claimed me.

I would be an expert and would probably use all of my money to travel to the remotest part of the world, avoiding all contact with civilisation on my way, so that I could sit there in splendid isolation away from any human beings who might pass on the deadly virus to me.

That’s how irrational my inner hypochondriac is.

The perfectionist in me wanted to do some research into the possibility of humanity being wiped out by such a virus so I have had to silence the hypochondriac.

And thank goodness for that because I have discovered that it is highly unlikely that a pandemic could cause the extinction of the human race. Over the centuries, there have been several nasty little blighters that have tried their level best to take us all out – things like The Black Death, Ebola, various flavours of flu, Sars and HIV.

The good news is that there are steps in place to contain such outbreaks and the organisations and institutions that are responsible for this are damned good at what they do.

Yet, as I watch programs like “The Walking Dead” where a virus has wiped out all but the hardiest of humanity and turned them into flesh eating Zombies, I can’t help but think that maybe such a thing could happen. In fact, in the show, every human being actually has the disease anyway so that when you eventually die, you come back to life as a cannibalistic corpse whose sole  raison d'être is to munch on the living.

How nice is that?

My deepest fear is that there is a malignant virus living dormant in every human being ust waiting to be activated and murder us in the most horrible way possible. If I shove this thought aside for a moment (very difficult now it is in my head) the truth is that humanity would find a way were such a supervirus to suddenly appear – even if it were man made. Some form of humanity would survive and find a way perhaps living in a remote part of the world, like the top of a mountain range, the deepest part of the Australian Outback or an African desert. It wouldn’t be pleasant but we might survive.

And if you do live in such an inhospitable yet safe part of the world, get ready to meet me. I’ll be there the moment the first cases of the outbreak are reported.

Progressive Thoughts - Day 3

The next song is Mama by Genesis.

Before Phil Collins turned Genesis into a pop band, they were a fully-fledged progressive rock giant with Peter Gabriel as vocalist. After, two of the five members departed, there were only three members left and Phil Collins took on the additional role of vocalist to add to his drumming skills. Things started to change with the band becoming more commercial and more like a pop band. However, during that transition, there were quite a few fabulous songs that nodded to past glories – and this is one of them. I love the sinister undercurrent and it is a far cry from Phil Collins songs like You Can’t Hurry Love.

Apparently the song is about a man who is obsessed by a prostitute, whom he calls “Mama”.

What I particularly like about the song is that sinister undercurrent and, as you can see from the video, the way that Phil Collins laughs in a menacing way.

I’m fascinated by disturbing themes and I sometimes question myself about it. For example, when I watch a thriller or a horror story, I am gripped by bad guys who are particularly nasty, demonic or devoid of feeling an emotion.

The only way I can explain it is that I am the polar opposite. I love people, generally, and feel terrible about harming any creature on this planet – with the notable exception of wasps.

For example, the other day, I put something in the bin and closed the lid with slightly excessive force. Just a microsecond before the lid slammed shut I caught sight of a slug on the rim and then watched in horror as the lid landed on top of it.

I actually cried out “Oh no!” and opened the lid to see a squashed slug, retracting its antennae and curling up into a ball. I watched for a few seconds and then grimaced as it fell into the bin, dead.

I had accidentally killed a slug and I was mortified.

This is the first time I have confessed to this heinous crime and I am appalled with myself.

You would think that such a sensitive nutcase would never watch or read about evil people who behave despicably. Yet I am an enigma in that sense and am utterly captivated by such people. For example, if you have been watching the latest series of The Walking Dead, the kind of character I am talking about is somebody like Negan, who is a total sociopath.

Another example is Hannibal Lecter, a highly intelligent, even charming, psychotic and cannibalistic murderer.

Why am I fascinated by this?

I can’t really answer to be honest. I can’t even imagine what thought processes run through the mind of such a person when he is committing such a crime. It’s totally alien to me. Ah – maybe that’s it. I am also fascinated by aliens generally and, to me at least, such thoughtless acts of violence without any morality and emotion are so alien to me that they actually captivate me.

Having said that, most of these evil people are figments of somebody’s imagination and I know that there are and have been real people who have committed atrocities too.

That terrifies me but thankfully (and hopefully) these people are few and far between.

The Look

I love The Walking Dead and so does Mrs PM. We were watching the exciting and disturbing climax of series six on Monday night and when it finished, my beloved said:

“What are we going to do without The Walking Dead?”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s a spin off starting next week.”

“Really?” she said, looking very excited.

“Yes,” I continued. “It looks at the issue from another angle. Have you seen the Hitchcock film called The Birds?”

“Yes,” she said.

I now had her full attention.

“Well, it’s a variation on that theme. Instead of people dying and coming back to life, the problem is all about birds. It’s a post-apocalyptic drama about people dealing with Zombie birds.”

“Wow,” she said.

“It starts next week. It’s called The Squawking Dead!”

“OH PULEEEEAASEEE!” she shouted.

I started laughing as, once again, I had proved that there is no such thing as a lying face and a lying voice, the apparent features she uses to detect whether I am fibbing to her. It’s a rare thing to catch her out and when I do, I don’t let her forget it (see here for more examples where I have failed misreably).

“There is no such thing as a lying voice or a lying face,” I declared triumphantly.

And then she responded with The Look!

Most men know what The Look is. It is the expression on a woman’s face that tells her man, without words I might add, that he has stepped over the line and has lost so many Brownie Points that he is bankrupt.

The Look has several intensities depending on the nature and seriousness of the crime committed. On a scale of 1 to 10, this was about a 2 out of 10 – mild irritation. Mrs PM was disappointed that The Walking Dead had finished and irritated at the fact that I had exploited her momentary weakness and struck a comedy blow.

Really, she was pissed off because I had caught her totally unawares!

In case you don't know what I am talking about, here are some stock images of The Look!

2 out of 10 - You might just escape unscathed

4 out of 10 - Be warned

6 out of 10 - Now you are in trouble!

8 out of 10 - Lock yourself in the cupboard and pray

10 out of 10 - Run for the hills 

I have never achieved a 10 out of 10 (or at least I don’t think so).To be honest if I were to reach that lofty pinnacle, I would probably be out of the house and down the road when the eruption took place.

Sometimes, I see The Look in other women, particularly in social situations, when their oblivious husbands/partners have overstepped their bounds. Usually this involves showing off, saying something that was meant to be kept a secret or basically being an arse in front of her and friends, resulting in, in her eyes, ritual humiliation.

It’s quite funny, really, because the man will continue acting the dick, or mouthing off and she will smile as if she is enjoying his antics. He will be oblivious to her feelings and continue to entertain his friends. She will smile – but not with her eyes. 

And then, she will wait until there is a lull and her beloved man looks at her. That is when she will strike with The Look and he will immediately know that he is in trouble.

I’ve seen it many times and it can go one of two ways.

If he notices The Look, he will stop abruptly and change the subject and spend the rest of the evening trying to rectify the situation, cuddling his woman, telling people openly how much he loves her etc. etc. 

It won’t work. 

Women have long deep memories and the moment she gets him on his own he will feel the full force of her wrath. The 4 out of 10 look of annoyance will escalate, potentially, to a 6 out of 10 look – if he’s lucky.

Worse, if he fails to notice The Look and continues down to the next level of Hell, then woe betide him when they get home. 

I have seen both situations.

Worse, I have BEEN in both situations. 

In my defence, I thought I was being clever and funny – when in reality I was almost certainly being a dick.

However, there is one situation that all men struggle with. And I will bet that it has happened to each and every male reader with a significant other (don’t deny it, guys! You know I am telling the truth). The situation to which I refer is when you arrive home and get The Look as soon as you see your lovely lady.

This is the worst situation of all. At least when you are a dick in front of your friends, you have an idea about why you are in trouble - and you have no idea why! 

You may try to delay the inevitable by saying “Hi beautiful” or another similarly shallow attempt at making things right. You may panic, walk straight out of the door and run to the nearest pub to get drunk.  At least when the inevitable tempest occurs, you will have an idea about what you did wrong.

“What have I done now?” is the usual response but that won’t help either. 

Women are irrational beings and will say:

“Well if you don’t know, I am not going to tell you,” and then walk away leaving the environment in the house frostier than a snowman’s underpants.

Thankfully, Mrs PM is the kind of woman who wears her heart on her sleeve and she will tell me in no uncertain terms the exact reason why I am a dick and what I did to incur her wrath. Mostly, it will be something insignificant and through an insincere cloud of apology I will do my best to rectify the situation even if I am deeply puzzled about why I am in the wrong.

Tact is my middle name – at least until Mrs PM reads this post.

By the way, I also tried to crack the same joke about The Walking Dead to my eldest lad.

Before I had even begun to describe The Squawking Dead he simply said:

“This is going to be a crap joke, isn’t it?”

Maybe that says something about the difference between men and women.