Rodney Edwards | Sunday Life Column | 11th January 2009 - Week 14

WHY WOMEN JUST DON’T GET MAN FLU

e-mail: rodney@rodneyedwards.co.uk

No matter what anyone says - man flu is more deadly than the feeble bout of the sniffles females get.

I write as an affiliate of the masculine species and one that is presently experiencing this horrid male-only infirmity. The inside of my cranium feels like it’s hosting a Black Sabbath recital as a thunderous banging head (complete with runny nose) forces me to my sick bed. So I warn you now, if I don’t manage to finish this piece, then the chances are it’s because I have died.

Cooped up in rigid caterpillar-type duvet bundle, it’s tricky to type and watch Loose Women at the same time but I must struggle on regardless. And to make things worse, my dripping flannel dried up an hour ago. I did thump the bedroom floor with a slipper but nobody came to bathe the rag in lukewarm water for me. I will just wallow in self-pity on my own then and so will my blazing hot brow, currently scorching at 350 degrees-fahrenheit. I’d fry an egg on there if I wasn’t off solids.

What I need is moral support. I call Julian Thornton, my oldest comrade and fellow man to ask for his guidance.

“Men aren’t as great when it comes to the old aches. What you need is a woman at your side, for me, it’s handy to have my mother around to aid my every niggle. Failing that, you could just sweat it out, as they say.” Julian still lives at home.

Why must man suffer alone? Because no one but man understands how much being bunged up with this bug torments one’s body and mind – it really is a case of life or death, you know. I’ve got a headache, wooziness and authority to winge about it because I am a man - an ailing man whom plays the trumpet each time both nostrils are blown amid a mountain of squelchy rolled-up tissues.

“I think I’m coming down with something,” I faintly murmur to Nat, my girlfriend. “You’re fine, it’s just a cold.” she rather insensitively replies before asking: “Coming to look in that new shoe shop?” “No, love.” I cry. And then like a scene from Saving Private Ryan, I softly stutter: “You… go… on… without… me…” like the brave little soldier I am before collapsing in a pool of my own perspiration. I don’t want to be bored rigid looking at footwear - I want to be drip-fed tomato soup instead.

Women will never understand man flu or any other kind of ‘chap complaint’. My gills turned a shade of emerald during Coronation Street once and coincidently after I inadvertently drank five-day old milk - a true story (I don’t know how it lay about in the fridge unnoticed for so long). “You’ll live,” said Nat, as I squealed in agony, clutching my stomach and the number for Doctor-On-Call. ‘You’ll live?’ – Not if the two gulps of semi-skimmed I had kills me first. She shook her head in repulsion and walked off.

Man flu is a billion times worse than the common cold as it leaves the male’s immune system in bits, and no amount of steam sniffing or garlic and warm milk is going to cure it. Although, playing video games while downing gallons of freshly squeezed orange juice does help speed up the recovery process. If I’m not here next week you’ll know it’s because I am playing Mario Kart on the Xbox 360 and overdoing it on the Vitamin C in oompa-loompa-like proportions – in my bid to get better.

Sickness is just so tough for us lads, it hits us hard, you know? But we get through it without much of a… er… grumble because we are… enormously brawny and all that.

Now who’s going to plump my pillows?

This entry was posted on Monday, January 12th, 2009 at 11:43 am and is filed under Sunday Life Column. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.