Good evening, from Plague Island.
Europe has decided that we are persona non grata, and thousands of lorries are holed up in a Kent airfield, waiting to cross the border. I imagine that there are a lot of lorry drivers that badly need the toilet.
Britain is on the brink of crisis. It’s a word that has lost all meaning, but it’s still true. COVID-19 roams the island unchecked. The tiered system of local restrictions has failed, primarily because we don’t have a useful test and trace system, and ’restrictions’ peppered with holes large enough to drive a lorry through. There is not a single metric that says we are doing a good job. In fact, we are doing a terrible job.
So, it defies common sense for the PM announces that people can mingle at Christmas for five days – as well as the statutory guidance. Chris Witty, with a face that said ‘this is fucking mental’, stressed that it would be unwise to get together unnecessarily. What we have to do, essentially, is complete a risk assessment. Because we’ve shown that we’re good at that up to now? What the hell are they thinking?
The Christmas super-spreading event has reluctantly been reduced to a single day, because, I assume, the country will rise up in rebellion if they can’t share a turkey dinner. That’s fine by me, but it’s time to give up the laissez-faire approach; otherwise, disaster looms in January.
Christmas seems to get larger every year – peeking over the horizon from October and climaxing on December 25th. Not so much this year. We are relaxed. The usual frantic rush never appeared. For me, a smaller Christmas will be a time to enjoy the little things – boxes of Quality Street, mince pies and a series of terrible Christmas films.
Enjoy yours, whatever you are doing. Try not to kill your grandma. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.