The minutes, the seconds, the day and then the night.

The minutes, the seconds, the day and then the night.

We are now in uncharted territory. The seconds, minutes, the days, the weeks and months are ticking away inexorably, inevitably, creeping gradually, slowly passing, then gathering pace at specific periods of the day. Time marches on as it always should but now there are haunting moments when everything around us reminds us of an empty room, a soulless, breathless land where the people of the world are just dumbfounded yet totally speechless, reduced now to lengthy pauses and sighs. It is frightening but at the same time sobering, time frames reduced to a feeling of stunned astonishment.

We know it may be the beginning of May but we're not entirely sure how we've got to this juncture without privately slumping into a chair and just staring at a wall. We are mystified, amused at times perhaps but maybe despairing for most of the time because the life we once knew is no longer the life it should be now. Our only consolation of course is that the rest of the world is also making things up as we go along, extemporising, creating and crafting, designing and knitting, exercising with Joe Wicks on You Tube.

But there are times when this literally feels like confinement, rationing, editing, chopping and changing comfortable structures that we'd normally take for granted. Of course the intimate family unit that we already have is indeed very satisfying but the rest of our families and friends are now a thousand miles away or seemingly so. Grandparents are no longer allowed to see their loved ones and you can't but feel that this is too much for them. There is an overwhelming sense of loss and yearning that simply can't be remedied.

Of course we are not on a war footing and nor should this ever be thought as a major disaster that is any worse than the one that so unforgivably claimed the lives of millions and millions 75 years ago. We are not dealing here with evil dictators with genocide on their sick minds, armoured tanks rolling into towns and cities, bombs, bullets and explosions providing the most horrendous soundtrack to our lives. Then we had an enemy we could see quite clearly but now we have the kind of war that moves around stealthily and strikes us savagely whenever we think that it might have gone.

This week it does feel as though we might be turning the corner, Covid 19 now peaking and the number of casualties and fatalities gradually falling and the hospitals now very skilfully managing every case as it arrives in its wards. But could this be just a smokescreen, an optimistic message perhaps but one without any real foundation based on the truth? We must  hope that shortly the lockdowns are lifted in stages but for the time being it still feels like as if some of us are simply scared witless, not sure who to believe and just getting through the days because you have to make do.

With every passing Downing Street media briefing there come pouring out a whole list of vaguely understandable announcements because maybe we've heard them too often. The numbers, facts and statistics are beginning to sound very monotonous. The feeling is that they may be coming across as very bland and anodyne medical bulletins that none of us really want to hear but feel we have to because we do need to be kept informed in case the news is much better than yesterday.

The sense of suspended animation is still very much our predominant default setting. There is a sluggishness and lethargy in the air if only because we're not entirely sure how much exercise we should do or how long we should be doing it for. There are only so many yoga, walking and stretching routines you can do without accidentally breaking the furniture. But on a more serious point you find ourselves trying to allocate hours of the day to the kind of activities that wouldn't have been remotely thought of as anything other than the usual and run of the mill.

And then you find yourself back in the crazy, absurd, madcap, crackpot and irrational world of football in Britain. For roughly the best part of over a month now, the Premier League has been driving itself around the bend, going loopy and just covering itself with a deep sense of embarrassment every time it opens its collective mouths.

Now maybe we've missed something but here we are in May and to all intents and purposes, the football season should be almost over, done and dusted, over and out. Liverpool won the Premier League back in the middle of March and the rest were just making up the numbers. But fate took a hand and a horribly deadly disease should have rendered the season kaput, null and void and no longer practical from any view point. Or so we thought at the time. We've underestimated the powers that be at FA headquarters because now their capacity for clear and responsible thinking has been hijacked by an invasion of aliens from outer space.

What on earth are the mandarins at Soho Square thinking of? In recent days we've been bombarded by suggestions scribbled onto the back of a cigarette paper? Now let's see. What about playing the remaining Premier League matches behind closed doors- and wait for it- neutral venues because that's bound to work. Why don't they simply change the whole concept of football as a spectator sport and just play for fun. Let's turn Hackney Marshes in London into the FA's new centre of excellence. Besides that's where David Beckham served his apprenticeship and it didn't do him any harm. Coats for goalposts always did sound an appealing proposition.

Try to imagine how Liverpool must be feeling at the moment. Are they going to find any desire or motivation to win those final two triumphant title winning games in front of an empty Anfield? Oh for those momentous goal scoring celebrations in front of the Kop where heaps of red shirts tumble over each other with elation in their hearts, hugging each other uncontrollably and then running around with the Premier League trophy in front of three dogs and two cats. Now that's definitely a crowd puller or maybe not.

Lest we forget there's also Liverpool's open top bus parade after clinching the Premier League. You can see it now. Hundreds and thousands of lifelong, partisan, passionate and devoted supporters will line up by the side of the Mersey docks twenty feet apart from each other because of social distancing. Don't even think about cheering or waving scarves or generally behaving in an over zealous fashion since you could risk instant arrest. In fact this isn't an even viable alternative because it really is very stupid and potentially fatal. Has anything been properly thought through or are they simply walking around in the dark?

But you know the Premier League. They'll just keep shouting it from the rooftops. Millions of pounds will almost certainly be lost, the likes of Sky, BT Sport, the BBC and ITV will have to whistle for their considerable share of the financial cake and their world will come to an end. Think of the sponsors and advertisers, the men and women who crunch the numbers, assess the profit margins and then run out of pound coins, those ten, twenty and fifty pound notes that represent survival for some clubs. We have to get the Premier League season up and running as soon as possible because the substantial coffers have to be filled and football is very much a business, a vital industry and our game. 

And then we hear of the possibility that the players will have to wear masks while finishing off the rest of the hectically rescheduled matches. It is hard to know whether to laugh or cry. The FA Cup Final will, with several provisos, be played on August 8 which could be problematic because perhaps a week later the next season would have to start again. We're frequently reminded that footballers have never been fitter, stronger or healthier but surely this just doesn't imply that a vast majority of them are just superhuman.

What are we to say about the compulsory use of masks being worn during those last nine games? It simply beggars belief and once again gives us an interesting insight into the muddled minds of football's Great Administrators. Have they quite literally indulged in too many hours of drinking excessive amounts of alcohol or have they quite literally taken leave of their senses. We must hope that by next weekend  football won't have spiralled out of control. Surely the Premier League season has to finish now before football loses everything.