Sporting retro poetry.
To quote an old TV programme. Now for something entirely different.
Here are the lyrical musings of a poet who didn't quite know it. You could call it sporting poetry but none rhyme as such but do occasionally. Still, while most of the world is agonising and worrying about coronavirus here are several pieces of my very descriptive prose written many years ago. So here we go everybody.
Cricket - what a game!
A gentle prod to square leg
Over church bells and village tent
A glass of wine perhaps for a while
Cricket's dulcet melody
A lofted six over hedge and yew
Umpire gives a knowing sigh
Batsmen rest on this
One and only
Begonia scented day
Third man glances wistfully
Over steeple and hill
We cheered the four
Where jackdaws soar
And lunched till stately tea
The hook over long on
This rural English scene
Of gallant deeds and upstanding folk
As rain stopped play on that morose pavilion
Amid lasting centuries
Through all the days
Football - Dreams from another age
You remember the days of
Baggy shorts that flapped in the wind
Cigarette card heroes
With boots of iron
Brylcreemed hair so soft and silky
Stood to attention as Matthews scored
We surged and swayed in mighty crowds
When Bovril and manners were half a crown
Thunderous roar, we cheered our goal
Lofthouse and Finney in their royal cloak
From joyous streets and smoky pubs
We lit our Woodbines and shuffled home.
This was the game that stole our hearts
When dreams and fantasies held the FA Cup
We rattled from terraces from way up high
And squeezed our scarves with a rapturous hug
I saw Best in his pomp, when London swung
Dancing to a tune
A heavenly pirouette
I wiped a tear when Bobby Moore died
The masterful maestro who always smiled
I'll never forget those Saturdays of yesteryear
When grand-dad and I,
Waved a rosette and heaved a sigh
Moist eyed but happy
We raised a glass to family and friends
To flying wingers, peas and pie
I saw footballing perfection last night.
Did you see Real last night?
Like a landscape in June
That flowered on the hill
When the river flowed and the angels played their harps
Sun set kissed the perfect Bernabeu
They glided and waltzed over
This handsome turf
With the air of a rumba
Their arrogance called
The peerless Zidane with the brush of a Cezanne,
Sprayed with garish colours over United's wall
When Figo bent the ball over Barthez's head
Sculptors as one, gasped with delight
But this was the night when Madrid came alive
When Raul found his kingdom
And Ronaldo thrived
Poets and novelists may squabble and debate
I saw Real consummate
If this was the portrait of all that was great
Then Carlos sat with noble intent,
Real will win the European Cup,
Like the matadors of old,
Taking their bow with timeless grace
And the disdainful nonchalance of those who always knew.
Stay safe and keep well everybody.
Wednesday, 1 April 2020
Tuesday, 31 March 2020
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!
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!
Sunday, 29 March 2020
This desert of nothing.
This desert of nothing.
With every passing day you begin to feel like one of those lost tribes wandering through the desert. We are now in Biblical times where David, Abraham, Issac, Jacob, Rachel and Sarah once so tirelessly roamed or perhaps it only seemed as though they had. Through dusty storms, turbulent times, endless trudging, all they had were their worldly belongings and perhaps a couple of sheep to keep them company. They wiped the sweat from fevered foreheads and made the best of it all. It must have seemed at the time that they were completely lacking in any sense of direction since there was nothing to guide them at all at the time.
The world has, quite literally turned into a real life version of Radio 4's timeless and celebrated Desert Island Discs in which none of us could possibly tell you what your favourite music was if they were marooned for an indefinite time. The late Roy Plomley would ask those intriguing questions, flirt with the women if the occasion was fitting and then we would all close our eyes in some romantic reverie, thinking back to those rock and roll masters of their craft such as Bill Haley, Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Cliff Richard, Marty Wilde and Jerry Lee Lewis. Anything to lift the mood, shake off the despondency and relieve the prevailing worry.
But there are no desert islands around here and besides it can't be that bad. We are still an island and we are still a civilisation but increasingly the footsteps of humanity are becoming less audible with every hour, week, month and year. The streets of London are turning into a blank canvas, a crumpled piece of paper with little in the way of constructive suggestions or meaningful value on it. It is a yellowing parchment from many centuries ago where the small print is more or less illegible.
Wherever we go we find ourselves in the ultimate ghost town, a Wild West town where the saloon doors creak open ominously and the cowboys spit out their cigarettes with a brooding menace. Then the cavalry arrive in a procession of horses galloping towards the cactus bushes and firing off their rifles and guns just to remind you that they still rule the West. But there are no swinging doors here and there are no cowboys with stetson hats on their heads. This is much more serious than that.
For the last month or so the coronavirus disease has swept the globe rather like one of those unwelcome wintry blasts that bring with it barrel loads of snow, freezing winds, slush, ice and then yet more and more rain. It began in China, landed in Italy and then the rest of the world. This is the kind of disastrous pandemic which has killed thousands and left most of us completely dumbfounded.
Of course there was the Black Death during the Middle Ages, the Spanish flu that left a wretched trail of death during the First World War but now the 21st century is beginning to experience the same kind of fear and dread. There is a very chronic state of stagnation here, a nation gripped by something totally inexplicable, a nation frozen and immobilised by disease, pain and suffering.
Suddenly we find ourselves in a vaccum, our minds well and truly numbed, our coping mechanisms totally held hostage by events that none of us can possibly handle without the latest news and even then we're none the more enlightened. We get a whole sets of contradictory messages every day, repetitive slogans and a whole ticker tape of warm reassurances. The best advice of course is to stay at home which begins to sound more and more irritating and condescending by the day.
For those with the coronavirus this is not the kind of advice or guidance we may be looking for. Besides it's not as if any of us are going anywhere since everything is shut and even if we do venture out for a while we're likely to be arrested by the police. The wine bars have put up their shutters, the pubs are no go areas, the nightclubs have switched off the background music and everything is off limits, banned, postponed, banished to history and not about to open until somebody tells us that normal service can be resumed.
Yesterday you scanned the desolation that was the West End of London and thought you were dreaming yet again. Trafalgar Square left you with a broken heart, Piccadilly Circus looked as if it had been evacuated owing to the detonation of a Second World War unexploded bomb and Waterloo Bridge was just a grey landscape of lifeless roads, a River Thames that sparkled in the spring sunshine but was totally lacking in any kind of movement. Where once vast masses of marching feet had trodden there was now nothing but silence, solitude and despair.
We are now living lives that have changed dramatically if temporarily stifled, restricted and overwhelmed by a disease and illness that only the most erudite of doctors and professors can even begin to explain or clarify. The coronavirus, we are told, is not a severe bout of flu but something that has the potential to kill and thank goodness we may never suffer from. It'll leave you with a draining fever, a cough from hell and little else.
We are housebound for hours on end, allowed to go out for a specific period of time but then ordered to return to your warm, cosy home and just put your feet up. It is, after all Sunday and for those of a religious persuasion you should have been in church this morning. But hold on all churches have been shut so where do you take your place of worship? In the old days everything was closed anyway and only the local laundry was open for your dirty washing. You remembered carrying baskets of washing for your mum as a kid and suddenly discovering the paradise that was the drinks machine in the corner. A cup of hot chocolate was just what the doctor ordered and it was six old pence shrewdly spent.
But even religion has had to take a back seat or pew if your local chapel still has a closed door. There are no contemplative prayers or hymns, none of those resounding pieces of ancient ditties paying homage. The shopping malls have little to offer in the way of attractively priced merchandise, shelves still echoing and hollow now, tumbleweeds of crisp packets and sweet wrappers flying off into the distance.
And so here we are again baffled, weary and wary, listless and sluggish, confined to our castles of contentment, locked down, chained down, shackled by the laws and strictures, following the Government's hardline if sensible words of wisdom. We will continue to take our daily exercise routine of one exertion only, keep away from our families and friends before just being dictated by commonsense. It's hard, of course it's hard. It was never likely to be easy. But there will be light at the end of the tunnel.
In America, president Donald Trump is doing his utmost to play down the gravity of coronavirus. The country should go back to work as soon as possible. Don't panic Mr Trump. We're all immune from this destructive disease and once we get hold of vital supplies of ventilators everything will be just fine in the not too distant future. Trump has never been anything other than businesslike and pragmatic so we're all getting flustered about nothing. Soon the highways, byways and freeways of America will be seething with activity, men and women in Wall Street earning obscene amounts of money, millions of dollars changing hands in the blink of an eyelid.
So that's where we've been going wrong throughout this crisis. The end of the world is not nigh and we've all been reacting, unnecessarily melodramatic and if you listen to doctor Trump you'll all wake up tomorrow, heart pumping, blood pumping, arms and legs stretching with vigorous vim and vitality. If you go back to work and stop dwelling on coronavirus then nothing can possibly go wrong.
Here in Britain Prime Minister Boris Johnson has been laid low with the symptoms of coronavirus. He conducts his interviews from the safety of his video conference room. Johnson still looks careworn, eyes narrowing, hair noticeably blonder than ever before and in desperate need of a good, old fashioned dose of lemon and honey. He must be wishing that he'd seen the last of those tough, challenging days of Brexit and the future would just be plain sailing. Sadly the duties of a Prime Minister are always difficult, taxing and onerous. For Johnson coronavirus may represent his most daunting task of all. Keep well everybody and please stay at home. None of us can really go anywhere as such, anyway.
With every passing day you begin to feel like one of those lost tribes wandering through the desert. We are now in Biblical times where David, Abraham, Issac, Jacob, Rachel and Sarah once so tirelessly roamed or perhaps it only seemed as though they had. Through dusty storms, turbulent times, endless trudging, all they had were their worldly belongings and perhaps a couple of sheep to keep them company. They wiped the sweat from fevered foreheads and made the best of it all. It must have seemed at the time that they were completely lacking in any sense of direction since there was nothing to guide them at all at the time.
The world has, quite literally turned into a real life version of Radio 4's timeless and celebrated Desert Island Discs in which none of us could possibly tell you what your favourite music was if they were marooned for an indefinite time. The late Roy Plomley would ask those intriguing questions, flirt with the women if the occasion was fitting and then we would all close our eyes in some romantic reverie, thinking back to those rock and roll masters of their craft such as Bill Haley, Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Cliff Richard, Marty Wilde and Jerry Lee Lewis. Anything to lift the mood, shake off the despondency and relieve the prevailing worry.
But there are no desert islands around here and besides it can't be that bad. We are still an island and we are still a civilisation but increasingly the footsteps of humanity are becoming less audible with every hour, week, month and year. The streets of London are turning into a blank canvas, a crumpled piece of paper with little in the way of constructive suggestions or meaningful value on it. It is a yellowing parchment from many centuries ago where the small print is more or less illegible.
Wherever we go we find ourselves in the ultimate ghost town, a Wild West town where the saloon doors creak open ominously and the cowboys spit out their cigarettes with a brooding menace. Then the cavalry arrive in a procession of horses galloping towards the cactus bushes and firing off their rifles and guns just to remind you that they still rule the West. But there are no swinging doors here and there are no cowboys with stetson hats on their heads. This is much more serious than that.
For the last month or so the coronavirus disease has swept the globe rather like one of those unwelcome wintry blasts that bring with it barrel loads of snow, freezing winds, slush, ice and then yet more and more rain. It began in China, landed in Italy and then the rest of the world. This is the kind of disastrous pandemic which has killed thousands and left most of us completely dumbfounded.
Of course there was the Black Death during the Middle Ages, the Spanish flu that left a wretched trail of death during the First World War but now the 21st century is beginning to experience the same kind of fear and dread. There is a very chronic state of stagnation here, a nation gripped by something totally inexplicable, a nation frozen and immobilised by disease, pain and suffering.
Suddenly we find ourselves in a vaccum, our minds well and truly numbed, our coping mechanisms totally held hostage by events that none of us can possibly handle without the latest news and even then we're none the more enlightened. We get a whole sets of contradictory messages every day, repetitive slogans and a whole ticker tape of warm reassurances. The best advice of course is to stay at home which begins to sound more and more irritating and condescending by the day.
For those with the coronavirus this is not the kind of advice or guidance we may be looking for. Besides it's not as if any of us are going anywhere since everything is shut and even if we do venture out for a while we're likely to be arrested by the police. The wine bars have put up their shutters, the pubs are no go areas, the nightclubs have switched off the background music and everything is off limits, banned, postponed, banished to history and not about to open until somebody tells us that normal service can be resumed.
Yesterday you scanned the desolation that was the West End of London and thought you were dreaming yet again. Trafalgar Square left you with a broken heart, Piccadilly Circus looked as if it had been evacuated owing to the detonation of a Second World War unexploded bomb and Waterloo Bridge was just a grey landscape of lifeless roads, a River Thames that sparkled in the spring sunshine but was totally lacking in any kind of movement. Where once vast masses of marching feet had trodden there was now nothing but silence, solitude and despair.
We are now living lives that have changed dramatically if temporarily stifled, restricted and overwhelmed by a disease and illness that only the most erudite of doctors and professors can even begin to explain or clarify. The coronavirus, we are told, is not a severe bout of flu but something that has the potential to kill and thank goodness we may never suffer from. It'll leave you with a draining fever, a cough from hell and little else.
We are housebound for hours on end, allowed to go out for a specific period of time but then ordered to return to your warm, cosy home and just put your feet up. It is, after all Sunday and for those of a religious persuasion you should have been in church this morning. But hold on all churches have been shut so where do you take your place of worship? In the old days everything was closed anyway and only the local laundry was open for your dirty washing. You remembered carrying baskets of washing for your mum as a kid and suddenly discovering the paradise that was the drinks machine in the corner. A cup of hot chocolate was just what the doctor ordered and it was six old pence shrewdly spent.
But even religion has had to take a back seat or pew if your local chapel still has a closed door. There are no contemplative prayers or hymns, none of those resounding pieces of ancient ditties paying homage. The shopping malls have little to offer in the way of attractively priced merchandise, shelves still echoing and hollow now, tumbleweeds of crisp packets and sweet wrappers flying off into the distance.
And so here we are again baffled, weary and wary, listless and sluggish, confined to our castles of contentment, locked down, chained down, shackled by the laws and strictures, following the Government's hardline if sensible words of wisdom. We will continue to take our daily exercise routine of one exertion only, keep away from our families and friends before just being dictated by commonsense. It's hard, of course it's hard. It was never likely to be easy. But there will be light at the end of the tunnel.
In America, president Donald Trump is doing his utmost to play down the gravity of coronavirus. The country should go back to work as soon as possible. Don't panic Mr Trump. We're all immune from this destructive disease and once we get hold of vital supplies of ventilators everything will be just fine in the not too distant future. Trump has never been anything other than businesslike and pragmatic so we're all getting flustered about nothing. Soon the highways, byways and freeways of America will be seething with activity, men and women in Wall Street earning obscene amounts of money, millions of dollars changing hands in the blink of an eyelid.
So that's where we've been going wrong throughout this crisis. The end of the world is not nigh and we've all been reacting, unnecessarily melodramatic and if you listen to doctor Trump you'll all wake up tomorrow, heart pumping, blood pumping, arms and legs stretching with vigorous vim and vitality. If you go back to work and stop dwelling on coronavirus then nothing can possibly go wrong.
Here in Britain Prime Minister Boris Johnson has been laid low with the symptoms of coronavirus. He conducts his interviews from the safety of his video conference room. Johnson still looks careworn, eyes narrowing, hair noticeably blonder than ever before and in desperate need of a good, old fashioned dose of lemon and honey. He must be wishing that he'd seen the last of those tough, challenging days of Brexit and the future would just be plain sailing. Sadly the duties of a Prime Minister are always difficult, taxing and onerous. For Johnson coronavirus may represent his most daunting task of all. Keep well everybody and please stay at home. None of us can really go anywhere as such, anyway.
Friday, 27 March 2020
Applause, applause but what happened to London?
Applause, applause but what happened to London?
Last night the whole of Britain and the world broke out into spontaneous applause, a stunning show of hand clapping at its loudest, strongest and most resonant. There was a thunderous standing ovation, a rapturous reception for the National Health Service. For at least five minutes it genuinely felt as if we knew all our neighbours. There we were in front of our homes, standing proudly on our flat balconies, cheering hoarsely on our roads and streets from all points of the compass. We were united, harmonious, singing from the same hymn sheets and powerful voices for the good things in life.
Of course it was time for mutual appreciation because we knew that the NHS were fully deserving of our fulsome praise, our vast national eulogy for everything the NHS stands for. We could never thank them enough, for being at the front line, fighting and attacking the rampant disease that is coronavirus. Some of us may have been reduced to floods of tears because our emotions have taken a severe pummelling but our gratitude will forever be forthcoming.
There is a very real sense that the entire world has ground to a standstill. But last night we wiped our eyes with a handkerchief, looking around us in a state of bewilderment and not knowing where to turn our heads. We were effusively thankful to the National Health Service because we knew that without them we would never be able to claim, at any point during our lives, that we were in the rudest health and when we needed them they were just there to offer a comforting shoulder to cry on or an understanding face.
And so we acknowledged for perhaps the millionth time the remarkable contribution made by all of those wonderfully knowledgeable doctors, nurses, surgeons and medical maestros who have performed such astonishing feats in the face of extreme adversity. Somehow though we have carried on with lives both stoically and bravely, exercising once a day, keeping a respectful distance from our fellow human beings but still worrying, still deeply concerned, not agonising about our own health as such because at the moment life is still healthy, sweet and straightforward.
At the back of our minds though is the lingering anxiety, a private anguish about the prospect of going outdoors in case we bump into somebody who simply can't help their coughing or an unexpected bout of sneezing. There has been a conscious and determined effort to keep a calm head and not to think about anything that could be remotely considered as negative. We look at the TV news, listening to our radios, checking social media quite rigorously and then just sticking together since there can be no other alternative.
But yesterday you couldn't help but wonder at the hugely detrimental effect that the coronavirus is having on not only the whole of Britain but for those of us who live on the outskirts of London. It was now that you cast your curious eyes on the West End of London. You gasped with shock and horror at the capital city, the once thriving theatre land that had now been darkened and silenced, now closed for business for the duration and how long would be anybody's guess. It almost seems as if somebody has pulled the plug out of the socket and turned the volume right down.
Piccadilly Circus, that flashing, flickering, dancing, bustling, bristling and electrifying hub of everything entertaining, had now been subdued, a no man's land, empty husk, a haunting wilderness, a picture of gravity, sombreness and almost grief. The buskers in the Tube station had long gone and there was not a soul in sight on the streets. A pitiful handful of Route Master buses were inching forward painfully and awkwardly, as if acutely aware of some deeply unfortunate set of circumstances.
All around Eros there were those colourful, high tech neon signs that once promoted a whole host of electrical goods, junk food and endless varieties of soft drinks which were no longer the visible presence they had once been so prominently. You could, quite literally, count the number of people on your fingers since they knew that the West End had felt lost, deserted and betrayed, abandoned for the time being because we were all frightened to visit it. It must have felt a deep sense of loneliness and of course the obvious isolation, privately crying and totally inconsolable because nobody wanted it anymore.
Briefly, you turned your attention to Trafalgar Square, once the home of a million pigeons and now just a soulless playground with just acres of desolate pavements. The National Portrait Gallery and the National Gallery had no identity, no tourists at all or very few that we could see and around the whole of Trafalgar Square there was nothing to commend it as one of the most atmospheric squares in the world. Those magnificent lions, alongside the formidable Nelson's Column, once the pride and joy of the West End of London, were on their own.
These are extraordinary times and it's hard to remember a time in our lives when anything like this has ever been experienced on such a monumental scale. It almost feels as if 2020 hasn't really begun if only because very little of any significance has happened. January and February have gone through the motions, shivering and getting ever so slightly wet and drenched at times but then the rains seem to have petered out. But March! Well, don't get us started on that one. We were doing very nicely thanks until we stopped talking about Brexit. Then we found ourselves trying desperately hard to focus on some unknown but destructive disease and pandemic.
This morning it was revealed that Prime Minister Boris Johnson has now been diagnosed with COVID 19 or the symptoms of the coronavirus. It may have been before your time but you can possibly compare the events of the present day to the 1950s TV science fiction horror show that was Quatermass where aliens with menacing intent would wipe out massive swathes of the human population. HG Wells would grimly recount tales of apocalyptic destruction and spacecrafts would hover over the world with equally as menacing force. But this has to be a horrible dream, It will go away and we know it will.
But this is not the time for gloom and pessimism, fearful and portentous events which could lead to a hellish breakdown of communication. There will be an imminent recovery because this can't be allowed to continue or get out of our control. Thousands of lives have been lost and many more have been quarantined, self isolated and told quite categorically that they had to stay at home. However, this is time to look forwards rather than back.
Eventually though we will pull through and we will get there. The renowned British resilience, the strong spine of resolve and determination will undoubtedly triumph. The scientific experts know for a fact that vaccines can be discovered in productive laboratories so surely this can only be a matter of time. We will conquer coronavirus and we will strike out into greener pastures, breathing the brisk, invigorating air of the Yorkshire Dales and the Lake District. We will get back to some semblance of normal life, we can shop once again to our heart's delight and we will travel around the cities, the shires, counties, towns and market stalls of Britain free from fear and apprehension.
Across the council estates, the snug villages with their distinctive air of privacy, the semi detached and terraced houses, the lush green fields, the richly melodious farmlands with their ageless sheep and cows, hope will be restored. Britain will once again revisit its gyms and libraries, its post offices and chemists with a song in its heart. Of course it may not seem like it at the moment but to those who may despair we have to believe that the world will indeed be given a complete bill of good health. Hold on everybody. We've been told to stay safe repeatedly and we will. Rest assured.
Last night the whole of Britain and the world broke out into spontaneous applause, a stunning show of hand clapping at its loudest, strongest and most resonant. There was a thunderous standing ovation, a rapturous reception for the National Health Service. For at least five minutes it genuinely felt as if we knew all our neighbours. There we were in front of our homes, standing proudly on our flat balconies, cheering hoarsely on our roads and streets from all points of the compass. We were united, harmonious, singing from the same hymn sheets and powerful voices for the good things in life.
Of course it was time for mutual appreciation because we knew that the NHS were fully deserving of our fulsome praise, our vast national eulogy for everything the NHS stands for. We could never thank them enough, for being at the front line, fighting and attacking the rampant disease that is coronavirus. Some of us may have been reduced to floods of tears because our emotions have taken a severe pummelling but our gratitude will forever be forthcoming.
There is a very real sense that the entire world has ground to a standstill. But last night we wiped our eyes with a handkerchief, looking around us in a state of bewilderment and not knowing where to turn our heads. We were effusively thankful to the National Health Service because we knew that without them we would never be able to claim, at any point during our lives, that we were in the rudest health and when we needed them they were just there to offer a comforting shoulder to cry on or an understanding face.
And so we acknowledged for perhaps the millionth time the remarkable contribution made by all of those wonderfully knowledgeable doctors, nurses, surgeons and medical maestros who have performed such astonishing feats in the face of extreme adversity. Somehow though we have carried on with lives both stoically and bravely, exercising once a day, keeping a respectful distance from our fellow human beings but still worrying, still deeply concerned, not agonising about our own health as such because at the moment life is still healthy, sweet and straightforward.
At the back of our minds though is the lingering anxiety, a private anguish about the prospect of going outdoors in case we bump into somebody who simply can't help their coughing or an unexpected bout of sneezing. There has been a conscious and determined effort to keep a calm head and not to think about anything that could be remotely considered as negative. We look at the TV news, listening to our radios, checking social media quite rigorously and then just sticking together since there can be no other alternative.
But yesterday you couldn't help but wonder at the hugely detrimental effect that the coronavirus is having on not only the whole of Britain but for those of us who live on the outskirts of London. It was now that you cast your curious eyes on the West End of London. You gasped with shock and horror at the capital city, the once thriving theatre land that had now been darkened and silenced, now closed for business for the duration and how long would be anybody's guess. It almost seems as if somebody has pulled the plug out of the socket and turned the volume right down.
Piccadilly Circus, that flashing, flickering, dancing, bustling, bristling and electrifying hub of everything entertaining, had now been subdued, a no man's land, empty husk, a haunting wilderness, a picture of gravity, sombreness and almost grief. The buskers in the Tube station had long gone and there was not a soul in sight on the streets. A pitiful handful of Route Master buses were inching forward painfully and awkwardly, as if acutely aware of some deeply unfortunate set of circumstances.
All around Eros there were those colourful, high tech neon signs that once promoted a whole host of electrical goods, junk food and endless varieties of soft drinks which were no longer the visible presence they had once been so prominently. You could, quite literally, count the number of people on your fingers since they knew that the West End had felt lost, deserted and betrayed, abandoned for the time being because we were all frightened to visit it. It must have felt a deep sense of loneliness and of course the obvious isolation, privately crying and totally inconsolable because nobody wanted it anymore.
Briefly, you turned your attention to Trafalgar Square, once the home of a million pigeons and now just a soulless playground with just acres of desolate pavements. The National Portrait Gallery and the National Gallery had no identity, no tourists at all or very few that we could see and around the whole of Trafalgar Square there was nothing to commend it as one of the most atmospheric squares in the world. Those magnificent lions, alongside the formidable Nelson's Column, once the pride and joy of the West End of London, were on their own.
These are extraordinary times and it's hard to remember a time in our lives when anything like this has ever been experienced on such a monumental scale. It almost feels as if 2020 hasn't really begun if only because very little of any significance has happened. January and February have gone through the motions, shivering and getting ever so slightly wet and drenched at times but then the rains seem to have petered out. But March! Well, don't get us started on that one. We were doing very nicely thanks until we stopped talking about Brexit. Then we found ourselves trying desperately hard to focus on some unknown but destructive disease and pandemic.
This morning it was revealed that Prime Minister Boris Johnson has now been diagnosed with COVID 19 or the symptoms of the coronavirus. It may have been before your time but you can possibly compare the events of the present day to the 1950s TV science fiction horror show that was Quatermass where aliens with menacing intent would wipe out massive swathes of the human population. HG Wells would grimly recount tales of apocalyptic destruction and spacecrafts would hover over the world with equally as menacing force. But this has to be a horrible dream, It will go away and we know it will.
But this is not the time for gloom and pessimism, fearful and portentous events which could lead to a hellish breakdown of communication. There will be an imminent recovery because this can't be allowed to continue or get out of our control. Thousands of lives have been lost and many more have been quarantined, self isolated and told quite categorically that they had to stay at home. However, this is time to look forwards rather than back.
Eventually though we will pull through and we will get there. The renowned British resilience, the strong spine of resolve and determination will undoubtedly triumph. The scientific experts know for a fact that vaccines can be discovered in productive laboratories so surely this can only be a matter of time. We will conquer coronavirus and we will strike out into greener pastures, breathing the brisk, invigorating air of the Yorkshire Dales and the Lake District. We will get back to some semblance of normal life, we can shop once again to our heart's delight and we will travel around the cities, the shires, counties, towns and market stalls of Britain free from fear and apprehension.
Across the council estates, the snug villages with their distinctive air of privacy, the semi detached and terraced houses, the lush green fields, the richly melodious farmlands with their ageless sheep and cows, hope will be restored. Britain will once again revisit its gyms and libraries, its post offices and chemists with a song in its heart. Of course it may not seem like it at the moment but to those who may despair we have to believe that the world will indeed be given a complete bill of good health. Hold on everybody. We've been told to stay safe repeatedly and we will. Rest assured.
Wednesday, 25 March 2020
Coronavirus - no more Olympic heroes
Coronavirus.
So here we are again desperately trying to avoid each other, making sense of it all, diagnosing and self diagnosing. It's at times like this when your heart goes out to the ever benevolent National Health Service, the warmly compassionate and naturally caring NHS. Suddenly, every hospital and doctors surgery in the land has now become the centre of the universe. This is now a critical breaking point for those whose job it is to extend the warm hand of love, solicitude, affection and tenderness.
Yesterday we were informed of the latest casualty of coronavirus. To say we were distinctly unsurprised would be a understatement because we knew that it was inevitable and, to be perfectly honest, it should have been one of the first sporting events to be postponed until further notice. The International Olympic Committee, in its infinite wisdom, have called off this year's Olympic Games scheduled to be held in Tokyo. We celebrated the announcement if only because we knew that it would have been utter madness to even contemplate holding the Games when most of the globe is now suffering the worst medical crisis of, quite possibly, all time.
By now most of us should know everything there is to know about those traditional, well entrenched Olympian ideals: togetherness, unity, sportsmanship and fair play. The four rings that have always represented athletic excellence and physical virtuosity will now have to be briefly condemned to another place in history. Now the Games will have to be delayed and postponed until next year. The spirit of taking part coined by Baron De Coubertin all those decades and centuries ago now sounds quite hollow. Now commonsense should tell us that everyday health takes complete priority to the distance that a discus is propelled, a hammer is thrown or the speed achieved in a 100metres Final.
Of course we were looking forward to the middle distance athletes striving and straining to break every record in the book. We couldn't wait to see those phenomenal 800 and 1500 metres runners jostling together in a pack for the final back straight before the valiant pace setter almost politely allowed the more experienced performer the right to kick for the finishing line. We celebrated the gold, the silver and the bronze medals, the pulsating drama, the engrossing spectacle, the memorable cheering from the crowds, the thrilling accomplishment of it all.
There was the glorious crowning of the fastest men and women in the world, the sad recognition that Usain Bolt has now retired and we wouldn't be acknowledging Bolt's successor. We gasped with stunned admiration when Bolt sprinted like a cheetah, lengthened those basketball type legs and glided majestically over the finishing line at the end of a 100metres Final. We knew we were witnessing history since we were sure that here was one man who had so completely monopolised one sporting discipline for so long. We knew that although Bolt was ever so slightly sluggish out of the starting block he would still eat up the ground and win the 100m by several country miles.
Then we would think about the Olympic gymnasium hall where the supple, lissome and gracefully perfect Olga Korbut and Nadia Comaneci had once so enchanted an Olympic audience. We were wowed by their grace, their almost feline flexibility, their flip flopping, their acrobatic dexterity, their unique artistry on the mat, the poetic interpretations of their routines and those quaint finger gestures as they somersaulted magnificently, swung on the pommel horse and then executed miracles on the bars.
And then we realised that the Olympic swimming pool would not be occupied by its aquatic heroes with their all seeing goggles, those powerful shoulders, their ripped, muscular physique, that insatiable hunger and appetite for victory. We remembered the American Mark Spitz in the tragic 1972 Munich Olympic Games who mopped up seven gold medals and swum like the proverbial fish. We willed home Sharon Davies, Plymouth's finest, home to a gold medal, Duncan Goodhew and all those world beating British heroes of the Olympic swimming pool.
Now we recalled that astonishing Olympic Games of Moscow 1980 when sporting politics threatened its continuation. Then, in a bat of an eyelid, we rightly saluted the eye popping achievements of Steve Ovett and Sebastian Coe who were supposed to win gold medals in their event but then discovered that both had got slightly mixed up. Coe and Ovett won both of their middle distance conflicts in the wrong order. But who cared since we were just delighted that both had captured the nation's imagination.
Sadly though now this year's Olympics in Tokyo has to be completely forgotten for the most obvious reasons. Sport has been banished to the sidelines, an utter irrelevance, totally meaningless and just a historical footnote. Coronavirus has been relegated sport to the sidelines, a small and remote corner of our consciousness.
Yesterday Boris Johnson effectively shut down a vast majority of the nation's everyday life. Shops selling non essential products have been ordered to put the shutters up, libraries, gyms, churches and schools have now faced a similar fate and the society that had hitherto been functional, thriving and healthy is no longer the force it once was. We must wish and hope that sooner rather than later normal service will be restored and the world engage with each other with all the enthusiasm that most of us would have taken granted. Stay safe and keep well everybody.
So here we are again desperately trying to avoid each other, making sense of it all, diagnosing and self diagnosing. It's at times like this when your heart goes out to the ever benevolent National Health Service, the warmly compassionate and naturally caring NHS. Suddenly, every hospital and doctors surgery in the land has now become the centre of the universe. This is now a critical breaking point for those whose job it is to extend the warm hand of love, solicitude, affection and tenderness.
Yesterday we were informed of the latest casualty of coronavirus. To say we were distinctly unsurprised would be a understatement because we knew that it was inevitable and, to be perfectly honest, it should have been one of the first sporting events to be postponed until further notice. The International Olympic Committee, in its infinite wisdom, have called off this year's Olympic Games scheduled to be held in Tokyo. We celebrated the announcement if only because we knew that it would have been utter madness to even contemplate holding the Games when most of the globe is now suffering the worst medical crisis of, quite possibly, all time.
By now most of us should know everything there is to know about those traditional, well entrenched Olympian ideals: togetherness, unity, sportsmanship and fair play. The four rings that have always represented athletic excellence and physical virtuosity will now have to be briefly condemned to another place in history. Now the Games will have to be delayed and postponed until next year. The spirit of taking part coined by Baron De Coubertin all those decades and centuries ago now sounds quite hollow. Now commonsense should tell us that everyday health takes complete priority to the distance that a discus is propelled, a hammer is thrown or the speed achieved in a 100metres Final.
Of course we were looking forward to the middle distance athletes striving and straining to break every record in the book. We couldn't wait to see those phenomenal 800 and 1500 metres runners jostling together in a pack for the final back straight before the valiant pace setter almost politely allowed the more experienced performer the right to kick for the finishing line. We celebrated the gold, the silver and the bronze medals, the pulsating drama, the engrossing spectacle, the memorable cheering from the crowds, the thrilling accomplishment of it all.
There was the glorious crowning of the fastest men and women in the world, the sad recognition that Usain Bolt has now retired and we wouldn't be acknowledging Bolt's successor. We gasped with stunned admiration when Bolt sprinted like a cheetah, lengthened those basketball type legs and glided majestically over the finishing line at the end of a 100metres Final. We knew we were witnessing history since we were sure that here was one man who had so completely monopolised one sporting discipline for so long. We knew that although Bolt was ever so slightly sluggish out of the starting block he would still eat up the ground and win the 100m by several country miles.
Then we would think about the Olympic gymnasium hall where the supple, lissome and gracefully perfect Olga Korbut and Nadia Comaneci had once so enchanted an Olympic audience. We were wowed by their grace, their almost feline flexibility, their flip flopping, their acrobatic dexterity, their unique artistry on the mat, the poetic interpretations of their routines and those quaint finger gestures as they somersaulted magnificently, swung on the pommel horse and then executed miracles on the bars.
And then we realised that the Olympic swimming pool would not be occupied by its aquatic heroes with their all seeing goggles, those powerful shoulders, their ripped, muscular physique, that insatiable hunger and appetite for victory. We remembered the American Mark Spitz in the tragic 1972 Munich Olympic Games who mopped up seven gold medals and swum like the proverbial fish. We willed home Sharon Davies, Plymouth's finest, home to a gold medal, Duncan Goodhew and all those world beating British heroes of the Olympic swimming pool.
Now we recalled that astonishing Olympic Games of Moscow 1980 when sporting politics threatened its continuation. Then, in a bat of an eyelid, we rightly saluted the eye popping achievements of Steve Ovett and Sebastian Coe who were supposed to win gold medals in their event but then discovered that both had got slightly mixed up. Coe and Ovett won both of their middle distance conflicts in the wrong order. But who cared since we were just delighted that both had captured the nation's imagination.
Sadly though now this year's Olympics in Tokyo has to be completely forgotten for the most obvious reasons. Sport has been banished to the sidelines, an utter irrelevance, totally meaningless and just a historical footnote. Coronavirus has been relegated sport to the sidelines, a small and remote corner of our consciousness.
Yesterday Boris Johnson effectively shut down a vast majority of the nation's everyday life. Shops selling non essential products have been ordered to put the shutters up, libraries, gyms, churches and schools have now faced a similar fate and the society that had hitherto been functional, thriving and healthy is no longer the force it once was. We must wish and hope that sooner rather than later normal service will be restored and the world engage with each other with all the enthusiasm that most of us would have taken granted. Stay safe and keep well everybody.
Monday, 23 March 2020
Are we all OK?
Are we all OK?
So how are we out there everybody? Are we bearing up under the strain of it all? This could be a very long and drawn out ordeal and the sooner we get used to it the better it's likely to be for us all. Yes folks. We're all in this together. This maybe the ideal time for global solidarity, worldwide composure and just a thought for the cats and dogs out there who probably haven't got a clue what's going on in the human world.
It is hard to know whether to laugh or cry, mope or sulk, fret or worry, thinking too deeply on what might have been had the coronavirus remained just a temporary news story that simply vanished as soon as it had arrived. But now this is getting too serious for words and we've certainly read, seen or heard plenty about COVID 19, the virus that has tragically killed hundreds and thousands in Italy, ripped the heart out of most of Europe and left most of us clinging on desperately for any hint of good news. The world is now confronting perhaps one of the most deadly diseases in recent history.
But we're not going to be downhearted or are we? After all, we fought two world wars, the English civil war, the Wars of the Roses, overcome the evil of tinpot dictators and then emerged with a relieved smile when the IRA reached a Good Friday agreement. Sadly though, we are now faced with a viral war which isn't our fault but is altogether more insidious, a disease that is much more than infectious in as much as most of us wake up now every day hoping that the coronavirus will simply pass us by.
Still though we remain in a parlous state of lockdown. Now we have yet another topical viral word to add to our medical dictionary. Did anybody see that one coming? How to explain a lockdown? This one sounds too threatening and frightening for anybody's imagination to handle. You're reminded of that notorious radio broadcast made by actor Orson Welles on American radio that was so terrifying that the whole of America hid behind the sofa, teeth chattering, sweat pouring off their foreheads and then quaking at the awful realisation that the world was about to end.
And yet here we are stranded, stuck, playing the waiting game, biting our fingernails and not at all sure whether to go out for some fresh air or just vegetate indoors while privately wishing that it is indeed a bad dream. We spend most of our days hanging on to the every word of the BBC, ITV, Channel 4 and 5 or Sky news agenda before just accepting what will be will be.
The official Government line and Boris Johnson take on matters is, it has to be said, inexplicably patronising and pathetically incomprehensible. For a man with a huge intellect and academic brilliance, Johnson reminds you of a man who doesn't quite know what to do when something which should have been explained to him over and over again is just lost in the translation.
The Johnson podium tells us that the NHS is still protecting us but for all the world, Johnson is none the wiser as to what plan of action he should resort to when the NHS might be having difficulties in protecting themselves. Doctors, surgeons and all of those admirably qualified medical experts are frantically rushing around hospital wards, scampering and scurrying around laboratories, Accident and Emergency before a mad, chaotic bedlam ensues that sadly looks as though it may get worse before it gets better.
It's very much a case of all hands to the pump. Of course there is the spirit of wartime defiance and a relentless insistence that eventually the coronavirus will disappear as soon as the first summer breeze drifts languidly over Britain's bracing seaside resorts. We are stuck and we are trapped. Then Boris orders us to stay at home in case we're all struck with a sudden thunderbolt. If you don't stay at home then Boris may feel compelled to lock you inside your humble dwelling and not let you out until you behave yourself at either the supermarkets or any place where the presence of humanity is still among us.
It's time for lockdown, social distancing, and self isolation. These are the three voguish expressions that have captured the imagination of every person who takes a careful, mental note of this constantly evolving English language. Every evening now Boris Johnson is joined by a distinguished professor or medical genius with words that sound so much more constructive than Johnson's mealy mouthed words of comfort.
Every day now Johnson continues to rattle off a whole artillery of bullet points and clarifications of Press releases that he may have been required to remember in a matter of seconds. He eventually runs out of pertinent advice, bumbling, tripping over his sentences and grasping at something profoundly moving before just ending his speeches with three quick soundbites if only to remind the nation that he has got a handle on this seemingly interminable crisis. Regrettably though, it all peters out into verbal anti climax.
We know what he's trying to say but for the life of us there is nothing joined up or coherent about him. The Old Etonian cadences are still smooth and roll off the tongue quite neatly but there are moments through the daily updates when he needs somebody to prompt him or keep up his spirits. He jabs his fingers at TV crews, health editors on the national newspapers and then wipes away beads of sweat once again. He stares intently at any friendly face in the Press audience prepared to listen to him and understand his thinking. He looks as though he may be fighting a losing battle.
The Johnson eyes are forever swivelling from side to side, darting across the room in the hope that something of a radical breakthrough might come to his rescue. But woe betide anybody with the revolutionary vaccine that will stop this coronavirus in its tracks permanently. He continues to address members of the Press with that chummy first name reference but never knows whether anything is hitting the mark or indeed reaching out to his British public.
The thought occurs to you that Johnson could reasonably be compared to his wartime hero and fellow Tory Winston Churchill. At the end of the Second World War, Churchill was rightly claimed to be the hero of all time and the ultimate saviour of the British people. The truth of the matter though was that for all his bravura and derring do Churchill was still regarded as a middle class toff who spent most of his time smoking expensive cigars at posh dinner parties. And this is the point where Johnson finds himself completely misunderstood.
Johnson, for all of his bright and shiny positivity and sunny optimism, is now surrounded by much darker clouds. He promised Britain that once the country had achieved Brexit and the withdrawal from the European Union then we'd all be jolly for the rest of our lives. That was all well and good. That one has been ticked off. Now though he will gaze out of his Downing Street window with a gloom and foreboding that even he couldn't have expected. A worldwide disease is wrecking his image and only he can fix this one.
Still, Britain we may trust that we'll all get through this one as we always have throughout the dusty archives of history. We'll close our doors on the outside world, becoming stiflingly claustrophobic into the bargain and afraid to venture out for so much as a pint of milk. We'll queue patiently outside chemists because only one individual may be allowed across the threshold. We'll talk to people with a sympathetic smile, wonder at the sheer variety of masks on show and then walk onwards and upwards, rationalising all the time something that is beyond our comprehension while also twiddling our thumbs. Hold on though Britain. We've done this before and we'll do it again. Keep smiling everybody.
So how are we out there everybody? Are we bearing up under the strain of it all? This could be a very long and drawn out ordeal and the sooner we get used to it the better it's likely to be for us all. Yes folks. We're all in this together. This maybe the ideal time for global solidarity, worldwide composure and just a thought for the cats and dogs out there who probably haven't got a clue what's going on in the human world.
It is hard to know whether to laugh or cry, mope or sulk, fret or worry, thinking too deeply on what might have been had the coronavirus remained just a temporary news story that simply vanished as soon as it had arrived. But now this is getting too serious for words and we've certainly read, seen or heard plenty about COVID 19, the virus that has tragically killed hundreds and thousands in Italy, ripped the heart out of most of Europe and left most of us clinging on desperately for any hint of good news. The world is now confronting perhaps one of the most deadly diseases in recent history.
But we're not going to be downhearted or are we? After all, we fought two world wars, the English civil war, the Wars of the Roses, overcome the evil of tinpot dictators and then emerged with a relieved smile when the IRA reached a Good Friday agreement. Sadly though, we are now faced with a viral war which isn't our fault but is altogether more insidious, a disease that is much more than infectious in as much as most of us wake up now every day hoping that the coronavirus will simply pass us by.
Still though we remain in a parlous state of lockdown. Now we have yet another topical viral word to add to our medical dictionary. Did anybody see that one coming? How to explain a lockdown? This one sounds too threatening and frightening for anybody's imagination to handle. You're reminded of that notorious radio broadcast made by actor Orson Welles on American radio that was so terrifying that the whole of America hid behind the sofa, teeth chattering, sweat pouring off their foreheads and then quaking at the awful realisation that the world was about to end.
And yet here we are stranded, stuck, playing the waiting game, biting our fingernails and not at all sure whether to go out for some fresh air or just vegetate indoors while privately wishing that it is indeed a bad dream. We spend most of our days hanging on to the every word of the BBC, ITV, Channel 4 and 5 or Sky news agenda before just accepting what will be will be.
The official Government line and Boris Johnson take on matters is, it has to be said, inexplicably patronising and pathetically incomprehensible. For a man with a huge intellect and academic brilliance, Johnson reminds you of a man who doesn't quite know what to do when something which should have been explained to him over and over again is just lost in the translation.
The Johnson podium tells us that the NHS is still protecting us but for all the world, Johnson is none the wiser as to what plan of action he should resort to when the NHS might be having difficulties in protecting themselves. Doctors, surgeons and all of those admirably qualified medical experts are frantically rushing around hospital wards, scampering and scurrying around laboratories, Accident and Emergency before a mad, chaotic bedlam ensues that sadly looks as though it may get worse before it gets better.
It's very much a case of all hands to the pump. Of course there is the spirit of wartime defiance and a relentless insistence that eventually the coronavirus will disappear as soon as the first summer breeze drifts languidly over Britain's bracing seaside resorts. We are stuck and we are trapped. Then Boris orders us to stay at home in case we're all struck with a sudden thunderbolt. If you don't stay at home then Boris may feel compelled to lock you inside your humble dwelling and not let you out until you behave yourself at either the supermarkets or any place where the presence of humanity is still among us.
It's time for lockdown, social distancing, and self isolation. These are the three voguish expressions that have captured the imagination of every person who takes a careful, mental note of this constantly evolving English language. Every evening now Boris Johnson is joined by a distinguished professor or medical genius with words that sound so much more constructive than Johnson's mealy mouthed words of comfort.
Every day now Johnson continues to rattle off a whole artillery of bullet points and clarifications of Press releases that he may have been required to remember in a matter of seconds. He eventually runs out of pertinent advice, bumbling, tripping over his sentences and grasping at something profoundly moving before just ending his speeches with three quick soundbites if only to remind the nation that he has got a handle on this seemingly interminable crisis. Regrettably though, it all peters out into verbal anti climax.
We know what he's trying to say but for the life of us there is nothing joined up or coherent about him. The Old Etonian cadences are still smooth and roll off the tongue quite neatly but there are moments through the daily updates when he needs somebody to prompt him or keep up his spirits. He jabs his fingers at TV crews, health editors on the national newspapers and then wipes away beads of sweat once again. He stares intently at any friendly face in the Press audience prepared to listen to him and understand his thinking. He looks as though he may be fighting a losing battle.
The Johnson eyes are forever swivelling from side to side, darting across the room in the hope that something of a radical breakthrough might come to his rescue. But woe betide anybody with the revolutionary vaccine that will stop this coronavirus in its tracks permanently. He continues to address members of the Press with that chummy first name reference but never knows whether anything is hitting the mark or indeed reaching out to his British public.
The thought occurs to you that Johnson could reasonably be compared to his wartime hero and fellow Tory Winston Churchill. At the end of the Second World War, Churchill was rightly claimed to be the hero of all time and the ultimate saviour of the British people. The truth of the matter though was that for all his bravura and derring do Churchill was still regarded as a middle class toff who spent most of his time smoking expensive cigars at posh dinner parties. And this is the point where Johnson finds himself completely misunderstood.
Johnson, for all of his bright and shiny positivity and sunny optimism, is now surrounded by much darker clouds. He promised Britain that once the country had achieved Brexit and the withdrawal from the European Union then we'd all be jolly for the rest of our lives. That was all well and good. That one has been ticked off. Now though he will gaze out of his Downing Street window with a gloom and foreboding that even he couldn't have expected. A worldwide disease is wrecking his image and only he can fix this one.
Still, Britain we may trust that we'll all get through this one as we always have throughout the dusty archives of history. We'll close our doors on the outside world, becoming stiflingly claustrophobic into the bargain and afraid to venture out for so much as a pint of milk. We'll queue patiently outside chemists because only one individual may be allowed across the threshold. We'll talk to people with a sympathetic smile, wonder at the sheer variety of masks on show and then walk onwards and upwards, rationalising all the time something that is beyond our comprehension while also twiddling our thumbs. Hold on though Britain. We've done this before and we'll do it again. Keep smiling everybody.
Friday, 20 March 2020
It's all very worrying and unnerving.
It's all very worrying and unnerving.
Slowly but surely the streets are emptying, the roads almost completely devoid of any semblance of traffic and the whole world now seems to be on tenterhooks. It feels like one of those frequently frightening Doctor Who episodes where the daleks have already invaded, the cyber men have left a trail of wreckage and millions of people around the world have locked their doors fearful of something quite calamitous and fin de siecle. We haven't quite reached the end of the world or the century for that matter but to judge by the state of some of our leading supermarkets it could all be over by midnight tonight.
The coronavirus has hijacked all of our innermost feelings, held hostage our ability to think lucidly and sensibly and then made us think twice about going anywhere for the rest of the year. Surely this can't last and there has to be an end in sight. For roughly the best part of a fortnight the good citizens of the world have been disabled, restricted, restrained, limited and constrained by forces completely out of their control. They can no longer function in a way that would have been considered as both acceptable, normal or straightforward. They have been instructed to behave in a way that is totally anathema to them because it doesn't seem right and besides you just have to get on with it.
And yet we can't. We've become social outcasts, no longer allowed to mix comfortably with our fellow human beings in case everybody around is chronically infected. Social interaction has been strictly forbidden and if you so much as sneeze or cough you're likely to be quarantined or arrested, sentenced to an indefinite period in your living room and then just left to find things to do which can alleviate any sense of boredom or fatigue. At this rate we may have to climb several walls or just summon our powers of improvisation.
Not for the first time since the declaration of the coronavirus crisis certain new buzzwords and phrases have suddenly entered our everyday dialogue and speech. Isn't it interesting how the news agendas of recent years have engendered a whole new language? For three complete years Brexit dominated every TV news bulletin and radio phone in to the exclusion of almost every other subject. Then Brexit was joined by Brexiteers followed hard on the heels by snowflakes and finally both hard and soft Brexit just to spice up the syntax. We were being introduced to a curious and totally baffling set of words that simply beggared belief.
So it is that we have now been lumbered with another collection of verbal oddities. This is the course of action we should take if we're afflicted with coronavirus or its symptoms. Yes folks. Here's the sage medical advice from the powers that be. We have to live in a state of self isolation because if we don't we'll have to make sure that we do because nobody is likely to come anywhere near you. Let's just partake in a spot of self isolating since this is the stern directive from the Government and our eminent medical officers.
Now we're all aware of the meaning of the word 'isolation'. The Oxford English Dictionary, you feel sure defines 'isolation' as a state of being alone, lonely, without company, on your own or secluded and seclusion in a manner of speaking. But self isolation has now assumed its very own place in the modern vernacular. In fact right up to today those with the symptoms of coronavirus have been told to self isolate which sounds just a bit sinister but isn't really when you think about it.
Then Ladies and Gentlemen we find that we have to adopt yet more grammatical eccentricity. Not content with 'self isolation' which in itself sounds slightly disconcerting we also have to deal with 'social distancing' which sounds like something you'd find in any updated version of any sociology text book. Are we to assume here that Britain should just cut off all links with every other human being in both Britain and the rest of the world? Do all families and friends simply sever all links with each other entirely or do we just keep a wide berth from each other for at least the rest of the year.
Of course this is not the time for flippancy or sarcasm because all of us are both anxious, nervous and ever so slightly petrified. But now we have to make absolutely sure that we just keep us far away from each other as its possible to be. These are desperately worrying times since none of us can be sure how to approach each other. We've been gelling and washing our hands vigorously for quite a while now but the truth is that our hands have never been cleaner and you could almost reach the point of the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder syndrome.
The facts are these though. All UK schools will shut gates sometime this afternoon for the duration, students taking their GCSEs and A Levels will have to wait another year or perhaps the education authorities will come up with some brilliant plan to keep the minds of their pupils stimulated. But surely the incentive to swot up on those life changing exams has now gone. Who on earth would be a politician at the moment? More importantly who would be either a GP, virologist or surgeon in the current climate? It is quite the most unenviable task for anybody in the medical profession and oh what a nightmare.
But then we look at our great Prime Minister Boris Johnson and those daily medical updates. Faced with the world media, Johnson continues to give the impression of a man who as a child paid absolutely no attention in biology classes at school. Of course he has to keep us informed of the latest developments and surely knows what he's talking about but then there comes a point in a Prime Minister's life when you just haven't got definitive answers to seemingly insoluble problems.
Ever since the appearance of those daily press conferences Johnson has been constructing a whole host of stock answers without quite being prepared for the next question. Then when it all seems to dry up on him he looks to his medical officers and scientists for comfort and solace. You'll have to forgive Boris Johnson because he's not a doctor and there are so many variations on a theme.
At the moment Johnson looks a bit pale, under the weather, understandably stressed out and tired. The body language is that of a man who would much rather be catching up with his sleep or just concentrating on a follow up to his book on Sir Winston Churchill. The eyes look puffy and glazed. The hair has more or less given up on him and that suit has almost become attached to him permanently. Apart from that, all is well but you suspect that here is a man who longs to be free of a crisis which he must have thought had gone away from his attention last year. Then there was the next one.
Still, Britain has to remain calm and composed. We've been here before and we know what to do. If you're off to the supermarket or anywhere for that matter then please be careful. There are only so many bottles of washing up liquid, tins of food, eggs and loo paper you can squeeze into that trolley of yours. There is still an air of desperation in Britain but bulking up on everyday supplies of food to bursting point can never be the answer.
This is not the age of war time rationing nor will the nation run out of Corn Flakes or baked beans. The world will not, assuredly finish tomorrow afternoon at 3.25pm. Nor will all of our notable food emporiums run out of soap, water, Easter eggs, matzo, chutney sauce, eggs, flour, bread or milk. The supermarket shelves tell their own story however and that has to be a source of major concern.
Perhaps the most moving image of yesterday's news agenda could be found in a sobbing nurse at the end of her tether at the steering wheel of her car. Tears pouring from her eyes she explained to us that there was no fruit or vegetables to be found in her local shops and that people should just stop panicking. So people of the world it may be advisable to listen to our caring and compassionate nurse. She has our best interests at heart and simply wants us to be healthy and well.
Slowly but surely the streets are emptying, the roads almost completely devoid of any semblance of traffic and the whole world now seems to be on tenterhooks. It feels like one of those frequently frightening Doctor Who episodes where the daleks have already invaded, the cyber men have left a trail of wreckage and millions of people around the world have locked their doors fearful of something quite calamitous and fin de siecle. We haven't quite reached the end of the world or the century for that matter but to judge by the state of some of our leading supermarkets it could all be over by midnight tonight.
The coronavirus has hijacked all of our innermost feelings, held hostage our ability to think lucidly and sensibly and then made us think twice about going anywhere for the rest of the year. Surely this can't last and there has to be an end in sight. For roughly the best part of a fortnight the good citizens of the world have been disabled, restricted, restrained, limited and constrained by forces completely out of their control. They can no longer function in a way that would have been considered as both acceptable, normal or straightforward. They have been instructed to behave in a way that is totally anathema to them because it doesn't seem right and besides you just have to get on with it.
And yet we can't. We've become social outcasts, no longer allowed to mix comfortably with our fellow human beings in case everybody around is chronically infected. Social interaction has been strictly forbidden and if you so much as sneeze or cough you're likely to be quarantined or arrested, sentenced to an indefinite period in your living room and then just left to find things to do which can alleviate any sense of boredom or fatigue. At this rate we may have to climb several walls or just summon our powers of improvisation.
Not for the first time since the declaration of the coronavirus crisis certain new buzzwords and phrases have suddenly entered our everyday dialogue and speech. Isn't it interesting how the news agendas of recent years have engendered a whole new language? For three complete years Brexit dominated every TV news bulletin and radio phone in to the exclusion of almost every other subject. Then Brexit was joined by Brexiteers followed hard on the heels by snowflakes and finally both hard and soft Brexit just to spice up the syntax. We were being introduced to a curious and totally baffling set of words that simply beggared belief.
So it is that we have now been lumbered with another collection of verbal oddities. This is the course of action we should take if we're afflicted with coronavirus or its symptoms. Yes folks. Here's the sage medical advice from the powers that be. We have to live in a state of self isolation because if we don't we'll have to make sure that we do because nobody is likely to come anywhere near you. Let's just partake in a spot of self isolating since this is the stern directive from the Government and our eminent medical officers.
Now we're all aware of the meaning of the word 'isolation'. The Oxford English Dictionary, you feel sure defines 'isolation' as a state of being alone, lonely, without company, on your own or secluded and seclusion in a manner of speaking. But self isolation has now assumed its very own place in the modern vernacular. In fact right up to today those with the symptoms of coronavirus have been told to self isolate which sounds just a bit sinister but isn't really when you think about it.
Then Ladies and Gentlemen we find that we have to adopt yet more grammatical eccentricity. Not content with 'self isolation' which in itself sounds slightly disconcerting we also have to deal with 'social distancing' which sounds like something you'd find in any updated version of any sociology text book. Are we to assume here that Britain should just cut off all links with every other human being in both Britain and the rest of the world? Do all families and friends simply sever all links with each other entirely or do we just keep a wide berth from each other for at least the rest of the year.
Of course this is not the time for flippancy or sarcasm because all of us are both anxious, nervous and ever so slightly petrified. But now we have to make absolutely sure that we just keep us far away from each other as its possible to be. These are desperately worrying times since none of us can be sure how to approach each other. We've been gelling and washing our hands vigorously for quite a while now but the truth is that our hands have never been cleaner and you could almost reach the point of the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder syndrome.
The facts are these though. All UK schools will shut gates sometime this afternoon for the duration, students taking their GCSEs and A Levels will have to wait another year or perhaps the education authorities will come up with some brilliant plan to keep the minds of their pupils stimulated. But surely the incentive to swot up on those life changing exams has now gone. Who on earth would be a politician at the moment? More importantly who would be either a GP, virologist or surgeon in the current climate? It is quite the most unenviable task for anybody in the medical profession and oh what a nightmare.
But then we look at our great Prime Minister Boris Johnson and those daily medical updates. Faced with the world media, Johnson continues to give the impression of a man who as a child paid absolutely no attention in biology classes at school. Of course he has to keep us informed of the latest developments and surely knows what he's talking about but then there comes a point in a Prime Minister's life when you just haven't got definitive answers to seemingly insoluble problems.
Ever since the appearance of those daily press conferences Johnson has been constructing a whole host of stock answers without quite being prepared for the next question. Then when it all seems to dry up on him he looks to his medical officers and scientists for comfort and solace. You'll have to forgive Boris Johnson because he's not a doctor and there are so many variations on a theme.
At the moment Johnson looks a bit pale, under the weather, understandably stressed out and tired. The body language is that of a man who would much rather be catching up with his sleep or just concentrating on a follow up to his book on Sir Winston Churchill. The eyes look puffy and glazed. The hair has more or less given up on him and that suit has almost become attached to him permanently. Apart from that, all is well but you suspect that here is a man who longs to be free of a crisis which he must have thought had gone away from his attention last year. Then there was the next one.
Still, Britain has to remain calm and composed. We've been here before and we know what to do. If you're off to the supermarket or anywhere for that matter then please be careful. There are only so many bottles of washing up liquid, tins of food, eggs and loo paper you can squeeze into that trolley of yours. There is still an air of desperation in Britain but bulking up on everyday supplies of food to bursting point can never be the answer.
This is not the age of war time rationing nor will the nation run out of Corn Flakes or baked beans. The world will not, assuredly finish tomorrow afternoon at 3.25pm. Nor will all of our notable food emporiums run out of soap, water, Easter eggs, matzo, chutney sauce, eggs, flour, bread or milk. The supermarket shelves tell their own story however and that has to be a source of major concern.
Perhaps the most moving image of yesterday's news agenda could be found in a sobbing nurse at the end of her tether at the steering wheel of her car. Tears pouring from her eyes she explained to us that there was no fruit or vegetables to be found in her local shops and that people should just stop panicking. So people of the world it may be advisable to listen to our caring and compassionate nurse. She has our best interests at heart and simply wants us to be healthy and well.
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