Bird flu is here amongst us, right in the middle of the city, and the government are doing nothing. I just walked past a dead pigeon, lying right in the middle of the street, with no obvious signs of death by car or mauling by cats. Therefore, it must be BIRD FLU. AAAHHHHHHHH!!! FUCKING HELL! SOMEBODY SAVE US!

There is not one man in a white suit with a large stick to collect it, or a space-age like tent cordoning off the dead bird. I’m not waiting: I’m going to start culling, from my window, with a large blunderbuss that I found in the cellar (which will make a satisfyingly colourful splat of the pigeons, kind of like a firework, only with entrails). I’m also considering culling the dog-owners that let their pooches push out plentiful poop onto the streets.

I never used to kill anything. I used to take ants and cockroaches outside on pieces of paper, but ever since having a moth and cockroach infestation I’ve gone a bit P-S-Y-C-H-O. I conservatively estimate that I’ve killed about 200 moths in the last month, and maybe a few less cockroaches.

The moths go into the hoover, which seems to be the best way to get them. Actually, the same principle would probably apply to the pigeons, if I could get a big enough hoover. Not sure about the dog-owners, though.

Anyway, how do we assign value to a life (he says, stroking his beard thoughtfully, before taking off his sandals, lighting an incense stick and settling down to some erotic eastern massage)?

Obviously, MY life is worth more than everyone else’s, because I am ginger and therefore genetically superior to everyone, but why should people be able to kill a moth without guilt or consequence, but go to jail for choking someone to death with a particularly large and slippery dog turd. Is that fair? Is it about size? If that’s the case, is it OK to shoot someone when they’re really far away, because they look small?

I’m now off to my weekly Sociopaths’ currant bun social evening.

Kat wants to know how I broke my glasses, so here is the absolutely 100%-true version of how it happened:

Bobbing for lobsters is a popular hobby in Hungary and since the arrival of democracy in 1990 exuberant Hungarians have used it to celebrate a successful election. This year a huge lobster-bobbing pot – containing around 1000 lobsters – was set up in Heroes’ Square after the Socialists came to power and bobbers had to launch themselves into the pot from the top of a bungee crane. The person who pulled out the most lobsters after 10 attempts won a threesome with top celebrity couple Viktória Swinger (Hungary’s top porn actress) and reality TV-show star and love rat Győzike.

The contest was tense and I was one lobster off victory, with eight out of nine. However, there was only one left: a vicious specimen called “Big Red”. I poised at the edge of the precipice and fixed my sights on the lobster. The crowd fell silent and flashbulbs popped as I leapt from the crane. As soon as I left the platform I knew my aim was perfect. Unfortunately, Big Red saw me coming. As soon as my head entered the water, he lashed out with his massive claws, snicking off my specs with one and Bobbiting me with the other.

As I was fished out of the bloody pool to be rushed to hospital to have my love truncheon sewn back on, I saw Viktor Orbán – Hungary’s long time lobster-bobbing champion and leader of the right-of-centre Fidesz party – dance up and down in triumph. He scooped a very commendable nine lobsters. To be honest, I didn’t feel too bad, as he had to win something this week, and at least we avoided having to go through the whole charade of Orbán claiming bobbing-fraud and demanding a recount.

Luckily, I only got a local anaesthetic as they re-attached the little chap, and I got to watch the threesome being beamed out live on M1. Viktor put in a lot of energy, but I couldn’t help but feel he was a bit of spare prick as the other two seemed more interested in the camera than him.

Big Red still has my glasses and has got a job as a political commentator as now looks far more intelligent; I received a larger nob by mistake; Viktor’s popularity soared and he is now certain to win the next elections in 4 years; Győzike realised that going out with a porn star wasn’t necessarily a good idea if it meant having to cross swords with middle-aged politicians and went back to his family; and Swinger…well, she just keeps on swinging. Plus, I’ve ordered a rather funky-looking new pair of specs.

So, I guess it all worked out OK in the end.

Kat wants to know how I broke my glasses, so here is the absolutely 100%-true version of how it happened:

Bobbing for lobsters is a popular hobby in Hungary and since the arrival of democracy in 1990 exuberant Hungarians have used it to celebrate a successful election. This year a huge lobster-bobbing pot – containing around 1000 lobsters – was set up in Heroes’ Square after the Socialists came to power and bobbers had to launch themselves into the pot from the top of a bungee crane. The person who pulled out the most lobsters after 10 attempts won a threesome with top celebrity couple Viktória Swinger (Hungary’s top porn actress) and reality TV-show star and love rat Győzike.

The contest was tense and I was one lobster off victory, with eight out of nine. However, there was only one left: a vicious specimen called “Big Red”. I poised at the edge of the precipice and fixed my sights on the lobster. The crowd fell silent and flashbulbs popped as I leapt from the crane. As soon as I left the platform I knew my aim was perfect. Unfortunately, Big Red saw me coming. As soon as my head entered the water, he lashed out with his massive claws, snicking off my specs with one and Bobbiting me with the other.

As I was fished out of the bloody pool to be rushed to hospital to have my love truncheon sewn back on, I saw Viktor Orbán – Hungary’s long time lobster-bobbing champion and leader of the right-of-centre Fidesz party – dance up and down in triumph. He scooped a very commendable nine lobsters. To be honest, I didn’t feel too bad, as he had to win something this week, and at least we avoided having to go through the whole charade of Orbán claiming bobbing-fraud and demanding a recount.

Luckily, I only got a local anaesthetic as they re-attached the little chap, and I got to watch the threesome being beamed out live on M1. Viktor put in a lot of energy, but I couldn’t help but feel he was a bit of spare prick as the other two seemed more interested in the camera than him.

Big Red still has my glasses and has got a job as a political commentator as now looks far more intelligent; I received a larger nob by mistake; Viktor’s popularity soared and he is now certain to win the next elections in 4 years; Győzike realised that going out with a porn star wasn’t necessarily a good idea if it meant having to cross swords with middle-aged politicians and went back to his family; and Swinger…well, she just keeps on swinging. Plus, I’ve ordered a rather funky-looking new pair of specs.

So, I guess it all worked out OK in the end.

Specs in under an hour. My fucking arse.

I must have gone into at least five opticians that advertised new glasses in under an hour, but not one of them could deliver. Apparently I have a strange prescription, which means it will take take them TEN DAYS to make the lenses. It’s not as if I have Marty Feldman eyes or an extra one growing out of the middle of my forehead.

I suspect the “glasses in under one hour” promise only applies to the non-prescription sunglasses section, and even then – given the average level of service in Hungary – they would probably struggle to meet this deadline.

“I’d like to buy that pair of sunglasses, please.”

“Certainly. Please wait around for 30 mins while I smoke a fag, talk to my boyfriend on the phone, idly pick my nose, randomly move some empty boxes around for while and then inspect my plucked eyebrows in the mirror. Maybe then I’ll serve you, but only if I can be bothered. Even then I’ll probably sigh as if you’ve just asked me to make the glasses myself, thus endangering my precariously long – not to mention vicious – nails.”

“That would be fine, thank you. I’ll just stand in the corner and bang my head to a bloody pulp on the wall.”

The upshot of this is that I am having to walk around the city, blindly groping in front of me. Actually, that last bit isn’t really necessary. I’m just trying to cop a feel.