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.