AIDS in the baby milk
Prologue - just when it seemed there was no more wrong that could be done...they pulled the plug on the world.
1: HIV? Are you positive?
The year is 2003, we're in Leicestershire - Kate and Gerry are overjoyed when their baby girl is finally brought to them. They'd had fun trying conceive, of course, but they were just reaching the stage where they were beginning to worry. Was something wrong? Had they left it too late?
There was an AIDS scare in 1999 but bizarrely the test seemed to have been defective. Luckily for them they are both clear and nothing is inherently wrong, nothing that is except for the fact that their first born daughter is going to grow up to be a right little twat and no fucking mistake.
Mummy and Daddy McCann of course have no idea of this, they can't possibly know yet, but since Millenium Eve forces have been at work to try and prevent them from procreating. Forces from the future stretching every physical law in order to prevent the destruction of the Universe.
Calm down, calm down!
AIDS in the baby milk
It's Liverpool, it's 1993, and people still rate Kenny Dalglish as a football manager. These are strange times in the world. People stroll by in shell suits, chests puffed out, with inordinately high senses of self worth as they fling their empty packets of B&H into the gutter. Everyone's called "La" and they all must be a little over excited given the frequent high pitched requests to "calm down".
Having hung around the parks or betting shops all day they return to their hovels in the evening to watch reruns of 'Bread' on UK Gold - a comedy, allegedly, but I'm not fucking laughing. The residents of this sorry city are mostly on smack or simply retarded during the day and while they try and concentrate on their daily drudgery nobody seems to notice Robert and Jon take little James for a stroll, perhaps to do a bit of train spotting? Dirty little scousers!
Get a dick up yer arse and fuck off
Gibraltarians guzzling imported Cruzcampo
We're now in 2001, in New York, and the date is September the 10th. New York, America, Planet Earth is not prepared for what happens next. At this exact point there should be nothing to fear for New Yorkers or anyone else. It's a normal day, mundane to many, apart from for a group of Gibraltarians, guzzling imported Cruzcampo, celebrating Gibraltar's national day in some style in Manhattan.
This holidaying family are in high spirits, that is until they spot a morrocan looking gentlemen appearing to be moving in their direction. Although they mean him no harm, in their drunken state they inadvertently trip the arabic featured fellow up. As he regains his feet and his composure he glares at them. "Pero, hijo", utters one, "what can I do about it now?". The man says nothing but his glare remains locked onto the Gibraltarians.
This is not the first injustice he's suffered today. 1 hour previously he was caught smoking weed by his boss, a gruff sounding man from northern England. "Get a dick up yer arse and fuck off!", his boss bellowed at him, "Go on, fuck off you scruffy fucking gupta". Stepping in dogshit as he walks away from the Gibbos is the final straw: he immedately calls his friend Tariq to arrange some 'guaranteed pass' flying lessons. He'll skip the part about landing for now.
Gibraltarians guzzling imported Cruzcampo