I’ve decided I’m going to do my bit for the war effort.
I’m going to attempt, on a semi-regular basis, to drag myself away from arguing with my teenage daughter Anna(belle) (she dropped the ‘belle’ part when she turned sixteen as it apparently made her sound like a ‘f%#king melt’) to bring a little sarcasm, cynicism and foul language to the staggeringly tedious situation in which we all find ourselves.
You’re going to have to deal with the fact that I will not be mentioning the ‘C-Word’.
I’m not going to be joining in with many of the solo creators and all of the mainstream media who are delightedly fanning the flames of hysteria and mass fear to gouge some views and attention out of folks.
As far as I’m concerned, if we can’t take the piss out of a whole range of other stuff that also sucks, well the virus wins doesn’t it?
Anyway, I think speaking its name is akin to saying Beetlejuice three times.
And if you’ve seen the movie (or indeed ever had kids), you’ll know that giving to much attention to microscopic little arseholes that invade your life for no apparent reason is inevitably a recipe for disaster.
Fifteen minutes of watching the endless, repetitive ‘Saying-The-Same-Stuff-As-The-Last-Guy-Using-Different-Words’’ talking heads on Sky News and my throat starts swelling, my cough reflex gets all riled up and my temperature starts climbing.
In short my hypochondria kicks in and I start talking myself into the fact that I’m probably doomed.
But then I turn off the talking heads and I cheerfully remember that I’ve literally been doomed for yyeeaaarrrss.
I mean, I’ve made a speciality out of being doomed.
I twerk in the face of doom.
So chin up people.
You’re either going to die or you’re going to live.
Pretty much like any other day.
And on that cheery note, I’ll probably see you tomorrow.
Unless all the doom catches up with me.