The Truth

Good news from the tabloid trenches - I am standing firm against the petty sniffle currently allowing half my newsroom to abandon their posts. Naturally I am refusing to accept medical certificates as proof of incapacity and have informed personnel that only a coroner's certificate is acceptable.

I am a man alone in a sea of Mansize Scotties, but it's increasingly obvious the whole epidemic is a figment of the British Medical Association's imagination, dreamt up purely to put the government on the spot.

Cleverer than they look, those masked men, 'forgetting' to immunise all those wrinklies like that. Saves a bundle for the NHS in the long run, not to mention the cold weather payments. Nice to finally see some of this 'joined up' policy-making that scary pixie Wendy Alexander is always lecturing us about - though funnily enough, I don't remember this one in the manifesto.

Sat next to Susan Deacon at a charity dinner last night but she proved somewhat humourless and preoccupied with her own petty problems. I hate a woman who can't laugh at herself, or at least allow me to do it for her. To cheer her up, I reassured her my own newspaper was behind her decision not to take any of this 'epidemic' nonsense seriously. Like she's been saying all along, people should give themselves a good shake, lob down a Lemsip and just get on with it.

I think she was pretty overwhelmed by my show of support because she suddenly choked on her food and had to be carried out by her advisors, purple in the face and spluttering with gratitude, saying she thought I must be sick or something. I hope she isn't coming down with something herself.

And it's kind of touching to know the health minister is personally concerned about my wellbeing. I like to think that if I were a bit below par in the middle of the night, I could get the health editor to wake Ms Deacon up and have the emergency services rush me round a pack of paracetamol. Yesterday I ran the headline Not Many Dead Yet on the front page to show my support for the plucky little lady.

But let's face it, there has been real tragedy this week. The tale of one ruthless military man getting away with murder is probably the story that has sickened me most. It strikes me as downright immoral, when there is such a public clamour for justice.

That's right, Defence Secretary Geoff Hoon's decision to allow gays in the armed forces is a disgrace that sickens me to the pit of my -otherwise humanitarian - stomach. Apparently they've got to sign up to this sexual code of conduct which 'prohibits displays of affection'. So no giving your sergeant major a bunch of flowers then, eh? Come off it, it'll take more than that to stop those pinkos taking over the SAS. Or at least the Catering Corps.

Not that I want you to think I am anything other than comfortable and spectacularly secure with my own masculinity. But you wouldn't get the likes of Augusto Pinochet prancing about with his privates, would you? The man may be a greasy Latino, but you can't deny he knew how to run an army in his day.

And he's still sharp enough to pull a Sgt Bilko and quick march out of trouble like a pro. You've got to admire it, haven't you? I'm surprised he didn't add 'flu' to his medical report, he had everything else. Though at least he had three doctors all to himself. And they say pensioners don't get enough attention from the NHS.

Actually, think I'd best take some preventive action myself and pick up a little Night Nurse on the way home. And I know the very girl jack.russell@sundayherald.com

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