To be or not to be. It's St George's Day or is it?

To be or not to be. It's St George's Day or is it?

To be or not to be that is the question is why and indeed that is the question why? Here we are on St George's Day on the anniversary of William Shakespeare's birthday and all of the candles have rudely been snuffed out, a dramatic performance is out of the question and the only comedy you're likely to get is when the coronavirus has finally taken its leave right off stage and into the wings. Only then will the Merchant of Venice, Macbeth. Twelfth Night, Othello and  A Midnight Summer's Dream be considered suitable for human delectation. Then we'll show our appreciation of the finest playwright England has ever produced.

But on what should have been another glorious commemoration of everything English and Englishness the whole of the world has been stalled, traumatised and psychologically heartbroken, disillusioned by everything and anything and totally flummoxed. Today should have been when the whole of Britain should have flung open its curtains and blinds, stretched its arms, embraced the day, run through cornfields, perhaps hugged perfect strangers and drunk itself into some delirious stupor.

Today should have been a day of stunning celebration, boisterous patriotism, endless knees ups outside snoring village pubs, the Union Jack rightfully unfurled to all and sundry, Morris dancing around the Maypole should the mood have taken us and publicans doing the Hokey Cokey around the twisting lanes of Middle England. And yet nobody will do anything today because to all outward appearances 2020 looks as if it's been cancelled and somebody has thrown away the key.

Today we should have been acknowledging the one figure from history who brought gushing waterfalls of rich poetry to both Britain and the world. We should have been dancing on the streets of the world, doing the conga, cavorting and carousing, line dancing around red post boxes, swigging vast quantities of Somerset cider, jumping from the Trafalgar Square fountains with boundless glee and then patting the back of your neighbour just for the fun of it.

Instead we are bowing our heads, barely able to comprehend the immensity of this disaster, the sheer magnitude of what has just taken place around us. We must feel almost anaesthetised to recent events, numbed into quiet submission and wondering what on earth William Shakespeare would have made of all this. Perhaps he'd have fallen into a moody depression, refused to pick up a quill and just moped around his home while Anne Hathaway, his loving wife, made a desperate attempt to boost his spirits.

Would Shakespeare have found alcoholic consolation in a frothing pint of mead, gnawing angrily on a thousand pieces of chicken and then abandoning himself to one continuous recital of his plays in private? Would he have listened to more and more renditions of classical music from dulcimer, harpsichord and piano or would he have just taken himself off to bed and insist on having an early night?

What we do know that across the colourful eiderdown of England's most beautiful lands there is gravity, millions of bleeding hearts, tears of loss and desolation, an abrupt halt to everyday proceedings and speechless taciturnity. With every passing day, the meadows and valleys, the otherwise fertile farmlands, combine harvesters, stone walls, bridges, restaurants, cafes, otherwise bustling markets and joyous street life, are no longer the life and soul of any party.

Across the streets and roads, the terraced and semi terraced homes, the neat procession of bungalows and maisonettes have been swallowed up by one of the most destructive diseases of perhaps any age. Comparisons have been made to the Black Death but are probably quite invalid. However, on today of all days any stirring choruses of Jerusalem or Land of Hope and Glory should simply be reserved for another day. Still, we have to keep smiling and we must heed the call of Morecambe and Wise's sunshine.

But we shall march on until the end of the road, chests puffed up with pride in the face of setbacks, drawbacks, torment and difficulty, trials and tribulations that none of us could have foreseen. So let's just dwell on the literary greatness of one William Shakespeare. Maybe he would have seen the brighter side of this period of our lives because hundreds of years after his death, the Bard's masterworks are still being performed not only in Stratford Upon Avon but across all global theatres.

So let's just spare for a thought for all those hardened Union Jack patriots who are probably feeling very aggrieved because St George's Day has once again been painfully overlooked. The common misconception of course is that nobody really takes a great deal of notice of April 23rd. We never  raise a glass of best bitter, never fly the flag and never sing the National Anthem unless the occasion warrants it. But come on, it was Thursday evening and we did launch into a tumultuous ovation for the NHS and we clapped because we wanted to recognise the timelessly remarkable efforts of our key workers, the heart of gold carers and the people who think nothing of going that extra mile on our behalf. Britain, here's a massive thumbs up. You deserve it.