In Australia, I am not allowed to give blood. It’s a damn shame, because I’m one of the limited number of people who’s actually okay with a totally not-sexy nurse plunging a small, spiky metal straw into my body, in order to extract a large amount of the stuff that I need to keep living. I’m a fucking hero. At least I could be, if I was allowed the chance.
I’d be giving blood four or five times a day, chomping down on the free liquorice they give and then nipping off to the pub to get completely lacquered on one beer. The amount of money I’d save on alcohol alone would be worth the trip to the blood bank every day. And I have useful blood too, I’m A+, which is pretty damn common. 38% of the people in this country have it and my blood is also compatible with those weird, AB freaks.
Have you noticed that everyone you ask seems to have O- blood, the type exclusive to 9% of the global population? I think I’m the only person I know who doesn’t. Since when did boasting about you blood type get you laid (I assume that’s why people boast)? But anyway, I’m A+. Hear that, Australia, my blood is A fucking Plus. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen those characters next to my name.
But no. I’m not allowed give blood and help my fellow countrymen. Australia refuses to mine the extremely valuable resources pumping through my veins. Why, I hear you ask. Why, when the country is constantly in need of the life source necessary to save thousands of sick Australians every day, would they deny the blood of a fit, healthy twenty-four year old non-smoker who doesn’t take any kind of drugs on a frequency that would be termed dangerous. What could possibly be wrong with me, you might be asking. What horrific, highly contagious disease do I have, what AIDS carrying monkey have I fucked that has the health authorities living in fear of my common, vital A+ red stuff.
The answer is this; I’m English. This Australia-England rivalry has gone too far, I think. This is racism at the highest degree. But what is the reason that my imperial, royal blood isn’t fit for the dying haemophiliac whose grasp on life is slipping away second by second? Well, boys and girls, according to the Australian Red Cross, I definitely have Mad Cow Disease because I was living in England between 1986 and 1998. That’s right, they don’t even need to do tests or any medical shit, they just know. I mean, now they mention it, I have become rather partial to milk these days and I’m eat a lot more salad, so yeah, give yourselves a pat on the arse, Australia, I’m diagnosed!
The Red Cross Website doesn’t go into any detail as to why people who’ve had Bird Flu, Horse Flu, Diabetes, Glandular Fever, Malaria, Dengue Fever or any other assortment of diseases can’t apply. Those aren’t a concern anymore. All they know and all they’re worried about is the fact that I definitely have Mad Cow Disease and they’ve clearly surmised that I’m at operative sent over by Her Majesty’s Government on a mission to infect all Australians with the disease so they’ll all get sick and we can reclaim the Ashes. Well too late, Australia, we already have the Ashes, you’re plan failed. Game over, guys. We win.
At the very least, my blood should be considered a different blood type. I could be MDC- for all I care, but then I could still give blood. That way, when a patient who has lost a limb is bleeding out, waiting for the icy grip of death to take him, his family can sign a bit of paper choosing whether or not they’d like him to die, or live in the knowledge that his veins and arteries are pumping with the DNA of a disease-ridden, monarchic, obnoxious English scumbag.