At this moment in really scrunched up time, I am ensconced deep in the bowels of a flying festival of contagion. The tuberculin-ward quality coughing and spewing that surrounds me and verily bathes my corporeal being in multitudinous clouds of thin expectorant mist is an icky, sticky Terry Gilliam film come to life but without the witty dialogue. A viscid, pestiferous, bilious consommé erupts from the maws of the alarmingly unwell, like pestilential popcorn exploding in a microwave.
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 