I think it was on my fourth pint of Tiny Dancer at Flash House last Saturday when the reality of the situation dawned on me. Yes, I’ll readily
admit it; I’m shit scared of Covid 19 and the destructive power it appears to
possess. I’m truly terrified for all my loved ones, friends and acquaintances,
but what frightens me most is that I don’t have any answers or an understanding
of how all this will play out, mainly because we’re being fed an unending
tissue of contradictory horseshit by the ruling elite. That makes me very
angry; while recognising we live in unprecedented, fluidly evolving times, I’m
angry that there is no clear, unequivocal world wide set of guidelines to
follow. Why can’t the United Nations
take the lead on this? Or the European Union?
Tell me, if
I wear short sleeves, how far up my forearms do I need to wash? Explain to me
why, if coughing and shaking hands are to be avoided, why do we allow smoking
and spitting in public? Ban those two disgusting habits and 95% of social
housing residents will see their chances of infection slashed dramatically.
After all, it’s not remotely likely that such sorts will be economically active
is it? Same as the elderly; it looks like those pinched-faced, xenophobic,
curtain twitchers who fell for Farage’s lies, the Brexit Pensioner Crew, are
about to be cut down in droves, as leaving the EU hasn’t done all that much in
terms of securing the borders. Rather it is serendipitous eugenics getting real
in the care homes and mortuaries of Little England. Oh well, once we emerge from
the other side of this pandemic, we can rejoin Europe PDQ.
Obviously,
there are different statistical interpretations and epidemiological models as
to how this crisis will end, but the lack of authoritative information leaves
me scared for others and angry at the nature of the capitalist world in which
we live. You can’t watch sport and you can’t go to the pub, because this
involves the kind of unnecessary social mixing that may spread the virus.
There’s no ban on Freemasonry yet, despite the amount of handshaking that goes
on, which can’t do anyone any good.
Of course
attending work, and in the process making rich people even richer, or going to
school, where you are psychologically prepared to make people even richer and
teachers, often unwittingly, act as the jailers of the working classes, by
babysitting children who would otherwise need to be minded by their parents,
having voluntarily withdrawn from work . This disrupts the needs of capitalism
and is thus prohibited by the ruling elite. The alternative, whereby adults are
mandated to remain at work, would result in thousands of feral youths roaming
shopping centres and thieving like Fagin’s 21st Century descendants.
Perish the thought. No, until such time
as BoJo and his pals have another unexpected 90-degree policy turn, it's carry
on serving your masters as usual. It’s alright for the likes of Boris Johnson
and the rest of the Tory Party; they all own vast country estates, with
sensational wine cellars in which to closet themselves in the name of self-isolation
or social distancing. For us ordinary types, the truly vicious nature of the capitalist
system is laid bare, though the selfish venality of those engaged in
unnecessary and obsessive panic buying is a symptom rather than a cause of
imminent social breakdown. Witness the specky loser I saw in Sainsbury’s the
other day, buying 12 multipacks of Quavers, as if 72 bags of cheese flavoured
maize snacks will keep your lungs clean.
Then again, you could probably imagine the Government trotting out such
bollocks as the best way forward.
I’ve said
many times before that I have enormous affection and respect for the people in
my team at work. This is not the case for the various types of cretin who share
our building, allegedly employed by other companies, though mainly they seem to
spend their days smoking and swearing on the back step. Fat, slatternly women
with dirty hair, bad teeth and half a dozen assorted brats at home or in care,
spend their compulsory 2 days of work that gives them access to munificent
benefits, idly loafing, spitting and exchanging implausible lies in the shape
of gossipy truths in the fetid smoking shelter. To be fair to them, their
employer has utterly failed them. There are absolutely no guidelines in our
building about what to do to avoid, contain or mitigate Coronavirus, other than
a series of bland, laminated screeds taken from various less than scientific websites,
one of which implores people to “avoid stress” by not listening to gossip, as
if that will act as a kind of moral vaccine.
The truth
is, the main motivational factor for people continuing to attend work isn’t a
pressing need for social intercourse or unconditional love for the slave-owners
who employ us, but the economic imperative. In this hideous gig economy where
so many of us struggle to eke out a living by pandering to the whims of cash
rich clowns, sick pay didn’t exist until a fortnight ago. Now the Government
has deigned to make SSP payable to all those self-isolating or worse. The
maximum payable is £95 a week. It makes me relieved on the one hand not to have
a mortgage any longer, but it also disgusts me that such a meagre subsistence
bundle was denied millions of workers until last week. The fact is, we need a
minimum living wage of £300 a week and fuck the bleating of vermin like Richard
Branson. Capital, it fails us now; comrades let us seize the time. Well, apart
from the fact we’re not supposed to be in gatherings of more than a dozen
people…
After an
initial, wholly unsuccessful period of “containment,” which appeared to consist
of major public officials and unelected brass hats re-enacting the very worst
bits of Dad’s Army in the style of
Alfred Jarry or Georg Buchner, we’re now enacting the “mitigation” strategy of
martial law enforced through emotional blackmail rather than the trigger of a
gun. It was bad enough when they shut the football down, as that removed access
to approximately 50% of what I normally think about, but the imminent
proscription of gigs and pubs will destroy the rest of my cultural life. As
regards professional football, I was absolutely devastated when Jeanette Mugabe
put the block on all Scotch football, especially as I’d planned to hit East
Fife on Easter Saturday and Airdrie a week later, but on reflection, I am now
wholeheartedly behind the suspension, and probable abandoning, of the
2019/2020. Being realistic, the only fair way to sort things out is to prepare
final league tables on a PPG basis and award the FA Cup to the top scorers. Of
course, there will be winners and losers in this scenario, but what else are we
supposed to do? Anyway, congratulations to Celtic, Liverpool and Newcastle
United on your silverware and commiserations to the Huns and the Mackems for
missing out. Again.
When I think
of my beloved non-league football, the fiasco of the Northern League not making
a public pronouncement until after 6pm on Friday 13th March becomes
ever more inexcusable. I know the League respond to any form of criticism or
dissent like the Soviet Politburo under Smokin’ Joe Stalin, but it has to be said that the utter absence
of leadership or guidance and the kind of press silence Howard Hughes, tissue
boxes on his feet, would have been proud of, leaves me in absolutely no doubt
that the current management committee need to learn from this and fast. Compare
this with the decisive and proactive conduct of the Northern Alliance
leadership. They gave clubs the choice to play or not, as there was no clear
advice to cancel grassroots games on Saturday 14th March.
Consequently, my last game before the 2nd Dark Age was the splendid
meeting of Percy Main and Winlaton Vulcan. In front of a larger than usual
crowd, The Villagers won a rip-roaring contest 2-1. There were brilliant saves,
terrible misses, fantastic hot dogs and great company. This was the true spirit
of grassroots football. If I’m not to
see a game again this season, this was a fitting, fabulous finale. Thanks to
Andy, David, Gary, Norman and Paul for being such great company; I hope to see
you again soon.
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