Let the political parties begin.

 Let the political parties begin. 

Now let's turn the clock back to this time last year. We were all caught up in the most depressing rut that any of us could remember. Or at least we thought we were. We couldn't celebrate Christmas because it was forbidden and strictly off limits. The coronavirus had well and truly scuppered any of the plans we might have made and a nationwide lockdown had ruined the whole yearly spectacle. The kids were devastated and families across not only Britain but the rest of the world had to settle for an orange and a couple of roast chestnuts. 

Roll forward twelve months and here we are at the end of 2021 and the transformation isn't quite complete but things are different and altogether much more encouraging. The life changing vaccines have been the perfect antidote to our miserable malaise and everything is open again. The shops, restaurants, cafes, theatres, jazz clubs, music venues and British football grounds have resumed normal service. Can any of us say fairer than that? The pubs and clubs are heaving with the enthusiastic punters who used to spend  deeply contented hours just drinking, carousing, cavorting, joking, laughing and smiling again. 

But for some of us the echoes from the past are still haunting us again. The numbers of deaths and fatalities are not nearly as horrendous as they were at the beginning of this year. The number of infections though relating to Covid 19 pandemic are still alarmingly high and the hospital admissions are hovering dangerously over the 7,000 mark but things are brighter looking since the people of the world are now safely ensconced in their offices, their work places, their distinguished looking universities and colleges while acutely aware of the fragility of the human race, the delicate vulnerability of the human condition and a chastening awareness of another medical meltdown. 

Clearly the very presence of a wholesale vaccination roll out process has lifted hearts and changed the mood of the British population. We are eternally grateful for a vaccine which, we have now been assured, will provide us with almost complete protection against another new variant as if we haven't seen enough of them by now. Sadly though we find ourselves faced with yet another outrage; now these have come along rather like buses. Just when we thought we'd seen the last of these ghastly developments another one comes along in quick succession. 

Roughly a week before last Christmas, the British government violated all the rules and regulations they were wholly responsible for implementing in the first place. It does seem that Boris Johnson and his pantomime characters decided, on the spur of the moment, to have one wild knees up, a Christmas party to end all parties complete with food, drink, party games, probably jugglers, fire eaters, magical tricks, boisterous heavy rock music and dancing until the wee small hours of the morning. All caution was thrown to the window, electric guitars played with gutsy gusto and speakers blasted out Metallica's entire back catalogue. And that was only on Christmas Eve or maybe it was a week before. 

Meanwhile in the shires and counties of dear England, its landscape of Christmas reindeers, festive decorations and pretty villages, the country was trapped in lockdown. It was a country that had nowhere to go, whose economy was seemingly shot to pieces and as a nation we were so demoralised that you would hardly have blamed the good folk of Britain for just hibernating during the rest of the winter. The fact is at the beginning of this year none of us went that far anyway so we hid behind closed doors and windows, becoming more and more agitated by the day, week and month. Or maybe we shrugged this off as a temporary ailment. 

So on Christmas Day families around Great Britain and the rest of the world sat slumped in their sofas, moping, isolated, disconnected, detached from their loved ones. Even our dogs and cats were in a state of severe dejection, curled up in their baskets and not entirely sure what to make of this domestic stagnation, whining because they'd been denied their yearly paper hats and a Santa hat to boot. So we just sat in front of the TV and, to be honest, it must have felt like any other day. What was the point in stuffing ourselves with turkey and all the trimmings when most of us would have been content with cheese on toast followed by a glass of orange juice? 

As the weeks passed up until late January, then February and March this year, the cinemas could have been mistaken for libraries, shops would continue to put the shutters up while restaurants and cafes must have felt like neglected old buildings that hadn't seen a lick of paint for ages. It wasn't a war zone as such because nobody had fired a gun in anger but it must have felt like it. The sense of confinement and estrangement prevailed and the streets of London were like ghosts of Christmas past. 

But back at 10 Downing Street they were raving the evening and night away as if nothing had happened. Quite clearly there was a blatant sense of gross injustice in the air, feelings fuelled by the irate citizens of Britain who felt as if  Boris and his cronies had overstepped too many boundaries, taken far too many liberties and of course they were having a laugh. Who on earth had given these politicians dispensation to do whatever they liked? The nation had been ripped apart emotionally by a deadly virus  and were about to storm the barricades and here was a government behaving abysmally. 

Never were the class divisions so starkly exposed as they were then. The rich Old Etonians were drinking several gallons of beer, wine and general booze and raising a toast to a grand old Christmas. Across the rest of the country the public were drowning their sorrows with a couple of bottles of lemonade and a couple of packets of peanuts. 

We are now used to those politicians with their snooty air of privilege and entitlement, their total indifference to the homeless, the forgotten figures in draughty doorways, the criminally disadvantaged who may never be able to look forward to a future because they've only got themselves to blame. So while Boris and co were doing the Hokey Cokey and boogying the night away to the hypnotic DJ beat, Britain was staring at the clock and doing nothing at all.  Once again Boris had apparently let down the country. Oh the double standards, the bare faced hypocrisy. 

Here we are a year after the scene of crime and the Tories are now rapidly covering their backs, defending their right to have a good time. And yet England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, Eire, the Commonwealth and the global community were experiencing a kind of prohibition. Everything was either banned, banished, off limits for the duration and the freedoms we'd taken for granted had now disappeared for months on end. 

The questions remain though. Who on earth had given a group of Hooray Henry Tory grandees and benefactors permission to booze the night away, kicking their legs into the air ecstatically and behaving with all the civility of football hooligans who used to patronise the terraces of Millwall during the 1970s. Those of course in the hallowed corridors of Westminster will of course maintain that nothing was smashed or nobody hurt and that all the correct guidelines were strictly observed. 

So that's OK then. Most of us though are more or less completely disillusioned with anything that comes out of the Westminster Hall of Comedy. They are resigned to monosyllabic ministers who just waffle about nothing in particular when confronted with a microphone. They sit on their green benches, some wearing masks and others simply snoring away as late afternoon becomes an early winter's evening. 

For Boris Johnson the last couple of weeks have been particularly bad days of office. There were the childish stories about Peppa the Pig, mumbling, muttering inanities and general poppycock. Then underneath his breath, Johnson forgets what he was supposed to be talking about and generally getting his knickers in a twist. So he meekly apologises to who ever happens to be in earshot and the Johnson persona shrivels up as if he'd committed the ultimate sin.

Still, we can only hope that if Christmas can go ahead then nobody blurts out anything about last year's frightful fiasco. Who wants to be reminded of a past that may well come to haunt them. This may not be the right time to compare Mr Johnson to Ebenezer Scrooge. Oh bah humbug Boris let the Christmas festivities commence. Whatever you do though don't you dare mention anything related to lockdowns. The people of Britain are in no mood to give our caring, sharing Prime Minister the benefit of the doubt.