I've had whine flu.
It starts with a sort of sore throat that makes you reach for the boxed set of The Wire and put it on standby beside your bed with a bulk purchase of Paracetamol, Lemsip and Lemon Barley Water. I've had my emergency kit since the first symptoms a week ago which, thanks to the power of suggestion, coincided with my desk neighbour Fran falling by the wayside, and my friend Nel taking to her bed (where she still languishes).
Last Friday, I left the office early, feeling bruised and slightly nauseated by a particularly nasty article about Pedantic Press in BookGrudge, which tipped the sore throat and aching limbs from Amber to Red, get-out-the-thermometer and cancel-all-weekend-plans alert. After a slight detour to see Scarlett Johansen arrive to a store-wide Awwwww in Selfridges (my daughters insisted but, I confess, it wasn't a hard sell - she's absolutely gorgeous and sweet) I was home where the kitchen , predictably, was decorated with its usual slovenly collection of unwashed crockery (none of it mine) where I went straight to bed and closed the door. Jimmy McNulty, here I come...
For those of you who have not yet discovered the gritty, mother-f***ing sheer, unadulterated joy of The Wire, I assure you, it might almost be worth getting Swine Flu to watch the whole series - and when it comes to Whine Flu, there's no down side. First of all it saves your nearest and dearest from having to listen to you moan about your sore throat, and your aching muscles, and your bad day at work, and your headache, and the fuzzy feeling when you think and the odd way your shoulders cramp when you're adjusting the pillows, and secondly - if you're female - you get to indulge in three whole series of Dominic West before he gives up the booze, goes tame, and only starts appearing every now and again when, who cares, you can enjoy 'Cutty' who conveniently gets out of prison, decides he isn't cut out to be a soldier no more, and opens a boxing school.
Insomnia got me through the Barksdale Empire and Whine Flu has carried me from the Series three Finale, almost to the end of Series Four when Jimmy gets domesticated (please - with Beedie? Bring back the drunk, banging on the door at 3am Jimmy for the love of God!) and Cedric with his ridiculously buff body finally and repeatedly takes his shirt off. That's an event that's well worth waiting for.
I know, I know, it's supposed to be the best television program ever made, and despite (or perhaps because) there being no women in it, men love it, and sure - it's addictive and compelling with the greatest ensemble cast, as well having the most fantastic f*** scene where nobody takes their clothes off in the history of television. I love all the characters and feel a pang when they end up in the vacant lots, and can't even bring myself to imagine something happening to Omar despite the fact that he's murdered more people with his shotgun than I've had lipsticks, but - really, truly, honestly, the main reason I love it is because it's unashamedly homoerotic.
Which, now I come to think of it, may be why all the blokes at last night's dinner party insisted they couldn't get on with it.
