Another day.

Another day.

It is another day. Of course it is. There are times though when it must feel as if we've lost track of time, that the things we used to take for granted in our everyday lives have now been snatched away from us. Maybe we've become very blase since all those conventional patterns of our everyday lives are no longer the structured routines we had been accustomed to. We have now been sucked into a time warp, frightened of our shadows, walking on the other side of the road or street if the thought had even occurred to us.

A dark cloak of melancholy has fallen over the West End of London and the City of London. It is almost as though the whole of the capital city has been evacuated because some unexploded bomb can't be traced and all hope is gone. The traffic lights look devastated and crestfallen, neglected by humanity, sad and sorrowful as if all hope had gone, thrown into a permanently depressive state.

Everybody and everything has been taken away from the metropolis. The sound system is broken and it could be some time before somebody switches on the electricity and dynamism is restored to Britain and the world. There was a time when Piccadilly Circus was alive with the sound of inquisitive tourists, swarming around Eros, sitting, jumping, smiling, standing, scuttling, running up and down steps shuffling, buoyant, upbeat, full of the joys of whatever the season was. But now, for the time being at least, all that is gone.

There is a sense of desertion and rejection, of frustrated ambitions, scuppered dreams, daily normality now disrupted, the feeling that we can no longer do the things we'd like to do because of coronavirus. We used to go out everyday and go somewhere, be somewhere, do something, gathering together as friends and families, using our time positively, sharing pleasantries, verbalising and socialising, making small talk and pleasant conversation.

This sounds like the bleakest of social commentaries rather like one of George Orwell's more maudlin of post War essays. But you would never ever claim to be an Orwell because Orwell lived through those times and knew what he was talking about. These are the observations of the present day and besides what on earth would Orwell have made about high tech and social media in the 21st century. But the principle feels much the same. The people are scared stiff, a vast human population held down, held back, locked down, prevented from doing the simple things because they've now become impossibly complicated.

We keep hearing the familiar mantra every day all the time, sombre TV public commercials informing us that we are not to go out at all. We have all been reduced to a state of individuality because the collective has now been banned. If we go to the park we have to make sure that we're all at least three or four feet from each other. All contact with each other is now strictly taboo. We have become officially dehumanised, a very obvious liability and, dare you say it, social pariahs.

At the moment it probably feels as if we're living in some impenetrable fortress, barricaded in, gates pulled down, portcullis drawn, high security barbed wire and fence in place. You are not imprisoned as such since you can go for a walk, run or cycle. But where are you to go with that liberation, that rare luxury?

We are now living lives in mock celebration, pretending to do the things that we used to do but are no longer allowed to do so. Live web cam parties among families and friends are now very de rigeur, fashionably accepted as the norm. We can still talk to each other and see each other but can no longer share drink or food with kith and kin. There is still that horrible sense of detachment and alienation from each other that none of us thought we'd ever experience in our lifetimes.

The doom and gloom mongers will insist that the a nuclear bomb is about to go off, that a deadly radiation will finally get rid of the human race. Oh crazy man. What complete balderdash and nonsense. Where are we going to go? A hermetically sealed underground bunker perhaps. Or are we forever destined to walk around with those daft looking masks over our faces?

But fear not. Slowly but surely it does feel as if the coronavirus is no longer the deadly threat it has been up until now. Of course thousands and thousands of lives have been horrifically lost in both Spain, Italy and England. In Belarus, the footballers of the world have stuck up the proverbial two fingers at the wretchedly terrifying disease. They're playing football in front of thousands of fans and they just don't care if anybody becomes seriously ill. Make of that what you will. There can be no words.

For the time being though it seems as though small pockets of the world are criminally oblivious to the coronavirus, shrugging it off as just a rather nagging cold or a brief bout of severe flu. If Donald Trump had his way the whole of America would be behind its office desks immediately, bargaining with the rest of the world as though nothing had ever happened. And yet Trump just loves the publicity which insists all is well and that the coronavirus is just a simple piece of propaganda designed to unnerve him or unsettle his American people.

In the English Premier League football season the mad speculation, the rumour factory and the silly season is still upon us. Only the most foolish and foolhardy could possibly consider a continuation or resumption of a Premier League season which is now only nine matches from completion. Both the Olympic Games in Tokyo, the London Marathon, almost certainly Wimbledon tennis and all of Test cricket during the summer has now been either postponed or rightly cancelled.

Why oh why are both UEFA or the FA even thinking about a restart of the Premier League season at the beginning of May- perhaps? Of course football means a lot to all of us and is still the result we look for on either on a Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday. As youngsters the creaky football terraces were effectively our second home and for some of us, still are. We now sit rather than stand which always seemed like the logical option. But now the stipulation is that all crowds and human gatherings are not to be allowed for the foreseeable future. Football has to recognise the harsh realities of the wider world rather than some fantasy land that nobody can believe. It has to be the only way to go.

So here is how it should be. Give the Premier League title to Liverpool now, scrap all relegation and promotion issues, expand the Premier League to 22 teams next season and start from scratch again in August. We would love to think that by August the health of the world will no longer be regarded as an emergency case. But let both Leeds and West Brom reach the promised land of the Premier League and we can all get back to doing what we were all doing before. It is time to forget the preposterous notion that the rest of the season should be played behind closed doors. How absurd!