We're all going to die!

Yup, its finally here. Yesterday a duck or something keeled over somewhere in Scotland. Was it murder or suicide? Neither. It was bird flu. All across the nation Britishers are preparing for the worst-covering their windows in sellotape, tailoring themselves rudimentary chemical warfare suits, wrapping tin foil round their heads and so forth. Squadrons of heavily armed vigilantes are roaming the streets, rounding up pidgeons for 'interrogation'. The nuclear option is on the table.
On a more personal note, my family and I have been making our funeral arrangements. My father has reiterated his desire to be hurled into a ditch and set on fire. I'm currently gathering some bits of plywood for my coffin, having already dug myself a grave in the front garden. I'm looking forward to doing my headstone. I can't quite decide on the inscription. I'm torn between the fairly generic 'here lies Ben Jones: Lover, Warrior, Poet, Husband, Mother, Son' or the rather more specific: 'Where Was The Fucking Tamiflu, You Bastards?'
But there'll be no drowning in my own liquefied lungs for me. I got two bullets; one for me and one for my woman. Assuming I have one by then; possibly due to the aphrodisiac of life threatening danger.
Hastings councillors are putting in place their contingency plan of erecting a gigantic, hermetically sealed plastic dome over the whole town with wind machines to blow contaminated air in the direction of Eastbourne. In Brighton a man has gnawed off both his legs out of sheer terror. Boats are setting sail full off desperate civillians, bound for countries with working health services, the Prime Minister and other essential officials have been loaded onto a rocket bound for the Moon. Productions of 'Swan Lake' have been canceled and renowned poultry assassin Dick Cheney has been called in to hunt down Orville the duck. In St. Leonards a small man in a tuxedo was mistaken for a penguin and beaten to death.
Aside from that its been fairly quiet.