Jim Hopkins: No need to make it up when pandemic is in town

Everywhere you go in the City of Jails, in vans, on buses, in offices and factories, on every mean (and green) street throughout the vast metropolis of Hubbardton, people are all saying the same thing.

"You couldn't pass me a bright side, could you, old chap? I'd quite like to look on it, just for a moment."

And, invariably, the answer's the same: "I wish I had one, cobber. Strewth, if I did, I'd be looking on it m'self."

But of course, they can't. No one can. There isn't one. We've got a global shortage of bright sides. People can't find them anywhere.

You're actually statistically more likely to get a phone call from old "Butcher" Bollard offering you a "super-cheap, 24 months, interest-free" mortgage than you are to stumble across a bright side waiting to be looked upon.

They've vanished, you see. They're as scarce as hen's teeth. And there's the rub. If you want to know why we've run out of bright sides, you need look no further than the teeth of the nearest hen.

Which you won't find. Because there is no nearest hen. Some foreign budgie sneezed on it and the poor thing's dead!

A couple of days with a runny beak and a bit of discomfort during laying, then the hapless Orpington gave a final feeble cough and fell off its perch, two little red feet twitching tragically; clear evidence the dreaded bird flu has struck again.

It's happening all over the place. Reports of the utmost perturbation are flooding in daily. A flock of fowl flying over Turkey en route to a Kentucky Fried Chicken factory suddenly drop from the sky; an ailing ostrich in Botswana sneezes violently and its ejected egg kills a family of three; two British racing pigeons pop into a pub for a quick pint halfway through their avian marathon and both are found next morning, dead at the bar.

It's a pandemic, people; a petrifyingly panicsome pandemic!

Now there's a word guaranteed to darken the brightest bright side. Which may explain why journalists love it. Short of Bombing In Baghdad or Teen Gang Clash, nothing makes a news bulletin seem more, you know, dramatic than pandemic.

It's got everything. Fear, urgency, menace, horror; you name it, the potency of the word is unassailable. Slap it on the front page, bung it on the autocue and it's hot! Sexy! Scary but exciting. Tell you what, you don't need to make it up when a pandemic's in town.

So, like it or not, pandemic's what we've got. Well, more precisely, another pandemic is what we've got. Because we've already had Sars. The experts said that was going to kill millions.

So was Mad Cow Disease. According to them as knows, that was going to cleanse the world of meat eaters quicker than you could say Big Mac.

Yet those scourges were mere germs in a tea cup compared with bird flu. Bird flu is going to absolutely, totally wipe out the entire planet if the virus mutates and if the mutation affects humans and if they can spread it by coughing and sneezing and if what they spread is nasty enough to kill other people.

No wonder folk are frantic. No wonder they're desperate to find a bright side. This is appalling.

And what makes it worse is that bird flu isn't the only dreadful pandemic lurking in the alleyways. Without wishing to alarm The Harold's worthy readers unduly, a couple of other deadly afflictions are likely to smite us long before we're rendered deceased by a falling emu plummeting through the clouds.

Foremost of these is Gangavitis. The recent outbreak in South Auckland has focused attention on this dire affliction. Its causes remain a mystery although some authorities suspect a toxic mix of pollutants including substantial state benefits, supplied without condition or control; considerable state emphasis on "rights" rather than responsibilities; substantial state focus on "relaxed" policing; and the state's thoughtful provision of superb role models like The Sopranos on its television channel. All have combined to produce a thoroughly lethal state of affairs. At this point, experts believe emigration is the only effective cure.

Sadly, no one knows how to handle the other deadly menace, Baubleimia (also known as perkanoia) which is ravaging the nation's leaders - or those who got whupped in Tauranga, anyway.

It's not clear how people contract baubleimia. Some say they ask for it, some say it's offered, although why anyone who's solemnly pledged they're immune from its ravages would willingly contract it remains a medical mystery.

But baubleimia is now galloping through the ranks of our Racing Ministers and threatens the entire country with Creeping Paralysis.

And then there's Rock Snot which we really shouldn't mention for fear of triggering mass panic. Suffice to say, if your nose starts dripping while you're playing the guitar and you start agreeing with Sir Howard Morrison about large Idols, then you've got rock snot, buddy.

Best lock yourself in a darkened room and apply for a government grant immediately.

But whatever you do, don't wander round the city in search of a bright side.

Because you won't find one, sunshine.

They're simply not there.