Tuesday 31st March – Stop making it worse. Fuckwits.

Scuse my French.

But what colossal douching fuckwittery is this?

These images were taken in New York yesterday and, whilst I understand the desire to flout the rules, kick over the traces and run free like a mustang, all that’s being achieved here is the making of this crap-fest lasting longer.

These fools are undermining the sacrifice of the many who have run out of stuff to watch and are now perched agonisingly on the edge of their sofas waiting for a new Netflix box set to drop.

Have you gotten so bored you’re actually watching the alien documentaries yet? 

Yeah, I hear ya.

The Tom-Fools are prolonging the dreary, monochrome existence we have all been shafted into enduring.

And more to the point, they are getting between me and the prospect of anyone in this house eating food that I haven’t burned anytime soon.

In short, they stand between me and a Big Mac.

So, to honour my struggle, which is real, I turned to the ‘Level 2: Media’ qualifications of Anna who whipped out her iPhone and produced this rather sick advertising campaign to illustrate, reinforce and pretty much bludgeon home the seriousness of my plight.

(Don’t come for me McDonalds marketing department, I’m doing the Lord’s work here).

And to the fuckwits.

Just get your arses home and suck it up.

This isn’t anyone’s childhood dream

Trust me.

Monday 30th March – It’s okay to have a melt down.

If I sounded aggravated yesterday.

Well, it’s because I was.

And I suppose, in reality, frustration is going to be the biggest challenge to us all during this imprisonment. I know, I know, we can jazz it up, make it feel like something we are all choosing to do but the truth is, we’re in prison.

It’s all very well baking cakes and posting Facebook pictures of the fun we’re having in the garden but the unwelcome reality is, this is going to hit us all hard. 

At some point, we are all going to come completely unhinged.

Not because we aren’t capable of entertaining ourselves, not because we hate our family or indeed our own company but because we are accustomed to exercising agency over our own lives.

And by that I mean stuff like being able to make the decision to have a Big Mac when we want one.

The only way I can conceive of getting through to the other side is by focusing, not on the current picture, but on the end goal and for me, the relentless negativity on the TV is making that impossible.

I’d like to simply lay the blame at the door of the media and have done with it but actually, it isn’t just them.

The worst offender is the Government.

They told us there was a bug going round that, whilst massively contagious, only had a mortality rate of 3%.

Okay, not ideal, but some good news there. Means I’ve got more chance of winning the lottery today than dying today.

I’ll take those odds any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

Then they said we should keep two metres away from people with whom we do not live.

Okey dokey.

On it.

Then they said we should stay inside for about three months and not come out for anything other than absolutely necessary stuff. 

Food, medicine, exercise and whatnot.

Again, not loving that prospect but fair play.

Check. Check. Check.

So we’re all doing what we were asked, well, not all, twats will be twats and all that, but the majority of us.

The scientists and medical experts got their white-board out, they round-tabled the situation and they decided on the best way to defeat The-Virus.

We listened.

And in return, what are they doing for us?

Running repeated adverts on television reminding us to stay two metres apart because there’s a bug going round.


Giving us daily death and infection figures.

Projecting increasingly worse end date and mortality figures.

Originally a thousand were set to die, now we’ll be lucky if it’s less than twenty-thousand.

Originally we’d be imprisoned for three months, now six.

How can it be getting worse? We’re doing what you asked of us (well not the twats but I’ve already covered that).

And if it is getting worse? What’s the good of telling us about it?

There’s nothing more we can do, other, of course, than saving The-Virus a job and hanging ourselves in advance of its possible arrival?

Do you understand the effect this will have on the mental health of many of your audience?

So, in future I would like to start hearing about the wins.

About the people who have recovered just fine.

Start giving us those figures.

Because, from where I’m standing, it’s starting to look like the Government’s goal here is not to defeat The-Virus, but rather to instill and keep instilling absolute terror into everyone.

And that, I’m sure, can’t be the case.

Because that would make them monsters.

Sunday 29th March – The Virus is the new Brexit


I’m done out here.

I’ve tried to be upbeat.

I’ve gone along with the party line in an attempt to be a team-player.

I baked for Christ’s sake.

But yesterday I was interrogated by a gnarly old till-woman with very few teeth as to whether 20 Silk Cut Silver is really an essential purchase.

Given that I hadn’t had a cigarette for three hours, I quietly pointed out that, in regard to the likelihood of surviving the next five minutes, it was pretty essential for her own well-being that I got my hands on them.

I’ve been screamed at twice because my foot was accidentally three centimetres over the yellow duct tape line when out at the shops.

I’ve been ‘tutted’ at, glared at and, on Day 2 of the ‘No-Pasta-Crisis’, thumped in the side of the face when trying to get a pint of milk.

Obviously, I got my Single-Mum on and responded appropriately.

Because, as far as I’m concerned, If I said “excuse me” and you kept coming, well that’s between you and whatever I pushed you into.

I have tried to see the light side of this debacle but, just as frogs boiling in a pan will gang together and pull any would be escaper frogs back into the water, the torch-wielding mob outside your front door are hellbent on ensuring everyone behaves like them.

Which is basically a matter of descending into giddy, hysterical cast members in some interactive Hollywood zombie movie.

It seems to me that the same people who lost their freaking minds over the Brexit fiasco, are the same ones losing their freaking minds now.

And if you ask these people now how Brexit turned out in the end, they don’t have an answer.

Brexit who?


Brexit is so last year.

We’re all about The Virus now.

Sadly, it really is starting to look a little bit like some folks just enjoy losing their freaking minds.

Has the thrill of Eastenders worn thin? Do The Mob now need to have their own starring roles in their own real life production?

I remember reading a short story by Ray Bradbury when I was at school (I had this anarchic English teacher who was obsessed with us thinking for ourselves) where the protagonist watched in horror as people went to the cinema to queue up and hurl themselves into a pit of fire.

As entertainment.

On a Saturday night.

They’d run out of things to amuse themselves with.

When I was thirteen it seemed ridiculous.

But quite honestly, I’m starting to think Ray might have called it.

Thrilling huh?

Pass me the popcorn dude.