Blessed are the crap delivery boys, for they shall still inherit 30p

Yet again I'm going through a run-down, feeling crappy snot-nosed phase where my throat intermittently swells up. Yesterday I made the bold decision to call in sick to work and go to see my GP.

My working hypothesis was fat/unfit/poor immune system and picking up every bug going AND/OR some kind of allergy, perhaps mould or perfume. If it's cat hair then I'll live with it, but if it's something I can exclude then I probably ought to try.

(Of course I had my third secret hypothesis, which was some rare and chemo-resistant cancer of the jowls. But we silently acknowledge then dismiss those sorts of hypotheses.)

The GP and I spoke, and we agreed a referral to the allergy clinic would be beneficial. Not long ago I discovered I could upgrade my allergic response to some foods from urticaria to angioedema, which I fondly refer to as Janice from the Muppets Syndrome. Run that baby through google images and you'll soon realise why.

The GP also began poking my in the throat and decided to send me for a thyroid check in case I have a goitre. For the record - if I have to develop a goitre then I'm 100% going to be telling children it's a spider's nest, or the result of not sharing my sweets.

My mother has only one working hypothesis for everything that is wrong in my life.

'D'you think it's all that Diet Coke you drink?'

No.

So feeling sorry for myself I decided to order a cheap chinese food delivery, the lowest-fat and lowest-cost stuff on the menu. Vegetables and noodles and tofu and a 'share-sized' (ho-ho) bottle of DC. Forty five minutes later the restaurant phone me to offer their apologies for the delay, they've just heard that one of their delivery men was in an accident. And the police are involved. So I wait for another half hour and a boy arrives at the door. I can tell he's new to delivery because he looks bewildered when I give him fifty pence as a tip, and not in a 'this tip is an insult to my humanity' way. After I close the door I realise he's given me a bag with soup in it, and no bottle of DC. I call up the road to him 'Hey wait! There was meant to be a bottle of cola! Coke! Diet Coke! And are you sure order this is mine?'

The boy tells me it is definitely, definitely mine and he'll be back with my drink. I go inside and check the food. It is definitely, definitely not mine. Beef ho-fun and battered chicken in garlic. I phone the restaurant and tell them he's given me the wrong food, so can you get him to check the order when he comes to get the DC. He arrives back fifteen minutes later with my food and glowing with the pride of fulfilled responsibilities presents me with a bottle of accursed full fat cola, in its smug red jacket.

We then have an awkward conversation on the threshold about why I can't accept the Red Baron. He's tugging his forelock and telling me he'll come back with the proper DC, although he's a bit confused about why I don't want the cola. I understand in principle that if I do not accept this cola it will be another fifteen minutes but I just cannot drink wrongy cola. I'm trying to get him to just give me a refund. Eventually I persuade him to give me the £1.80 back and tell him I will just walk up to the shops. Quicker for me and he won't have to come back a third time. As he reaches into his pocket he makes a decision to give me £2.00. I realise he considers this compensation.

So I walked up to the shop in the dark and the rain at almost ten at night to get myself my DC, because I could not possibly eat chinese food without it. I would rather eat cold chinese food than chinese food without DC.

I think I have a problem.


(The above clip is from Mitchell and Webb and if you enjoy this stolen humour you should buy their box set so you can sleep soundly at night.)