Masks & Anarchy

 Television is an effective vaccine against reality.......

I’m going to have to get up early in the morning, as I need to talk to my GP. The reason being is that my anxiety levels are rising rapidly, and I think I need to double my Propranolol prescription. What has caused the increase in anxiety is the fact I’m soon to start grafting again. No chance of me revealing the identity or location of my new employers but suffice to say they can’t be any worse to work for than Tyne Met or Sitel. The anxiety isn’t about the work I’ll have to do, which I’m sure I’ll complete with ease, but simple things like meeting a whole load of new people for the first time, managing to realign my body clock so I can deal with the working week and, most frightening of all, coping with public transport and the possible effects of sustained close proximity to the great unwashed.

I had intended that this piece would be a light-hearted account of all the different ways I’ve found to waste time during lockdown, home working, furlough and unemployment, but circumstances meant that just wasn’t possible. You know the sort of things I’d be talking about, feeling proud of myself for lousing from my pit any time before noon, achieving Free Cell level 463 on the laptop and becoming a connoisseur of shite television. In the afternoon, I’ve developed an affection for Everybody Hates Chris, Modern Family (that Colombian character is brilliant) and Parks and Recreation, where the opinions of Ron Swanson provide me with a daily dose of hysterics.

I hope this doesn’t come across as Requiem for a Dream relocated to North Tyneside, but around tea time, I turn the clock back thirty years to visit Erinsborough and Summer Bay. Let’s face it, both Home & Away and Neighbours are and have always been a load of fucking shit; they still are incidentally. However, Home & Away has now adopted an almost cerebral undertone, whereby Alf Stewart, probably the only character other than Marilyn, not to have been eliminated in one of those typically preposterous soap opera deaths, has evolved into a gnomic, gnostic soothsayer, wandering the streets of Summer Bay, dispensing takes on moral philosophy and interpersonal ethics.  It’s bizarre, boring and the only thing the show has to recommend it. Meanwhile, there’s still a few of the originals aimlessly dropping into Lassiters at inappropriate times in the working day, including former aspiring Hell’s Angel turned criminal defence lawyer, Toadfish Rebecchi. The ponytail has gone, but the gormless expression, vital for courtroom advocates the world over, remains. The plot, such as it is, seems to continually consist of Karl Kennedy, GP turned landscape gardener turned pop star turned GP again, and his wife Susan, who is still a pain in the hoop teacher, getting married, then divorced and then married again. Four times they’ve been down the aisle together, as well as getting their kit off with all and sundry, as Ramsey Street mutates into a Pier Paolo Pasolini buttock ripper. What they need is some proper relationship counselling from Alf.

At night, I’ve been watching Doc Martin, which I use to find repugnant, but I’m actually thoroughly enjoying, though the fact that ITV4 and UK Gold are showing different series simultaneously can be confusing.  Him and Louisa are, by turns, unmarried, married, split up or back together. They have relationship counselling, but that’s not something Barry Foster needs; in Van der Valk, Piet and Arlette (played by 3 different actresses) discuss confidential police business over vats of Genever, cheroots and numerous half litres of Amstel in wood-panelled restaurants and dingy brown cafes. Piet generally has an epiphany then solves the crime 10 minutes from the end, allowing for metaphysical ruminations over the impermanence of human life in a socially liberal society.

The one thing all these television series have in common is a far greater sense of reality than Her Majesty’s Government have displayed in their response to the Covid-19 situation. I’ve not written specifically about the pandemic for a few months now, but it is obvious the incompetent clowns in charge need to be brought to book once again. First and foremost, anything that Matt Hancock says can be safely disregarded as ludicrously preposterous; it often appears he’s been set up to talk bollocks on camera as a way of distracting the general public from the imposition of a fascist dictatorship by stealth. Then again, I’ve never particularly subscribed to the conspiracy theories about a shadowy secret super state, mainly because this shower of moral degenerates couldn’t find their arse with both hands. Perhaps Hancock really is as thick as he seems, though he’s a Mensa shoo-in compared to Gavin Williamson. Interestingly, the Education Secretary described doing his A-Levels as “the hardest decade of my life.”

As far as the Brexit five act tragedy is concerned, I’d expect the EU to launch a pre-emptive nuclear strike on the Palace of Westminster if that cunt Michael Gove insists on reincarnating Ian Smith’s 1965 declaration of UDI in Rhodesia. It simply is not acceptable to ignore international law and will result in blood on the streets. However, it is unclear whether face coverings will be mandatory during the inevitable forthcoming dystopian civil war. They still are in shops and on public transport and I’d like to remind some of the tinfoil hat wearing anti Vax lunatics of that. I don’t necessarily believe in the efficacy of face masks, but they simply don’t do any harm, so there’s no harm in conforming to regulations.

My uninformed opinion about Covid-19 has moved slightly from the apocalyptic fear I endured during the first three months. While I still believe it is a highly dangerous and destructive condition for us old, fat bastards, I really don’t see it as being the catastrophic end of days plague it was originally marketed as. The medical profession, from front line practitioners to back office researchers, are geniuses; in 6 months they’ve got a handle on the virus and how to ameliorate the effects if not the symptoms. Of course, cases are rising, we’ve got better quality tests now, just not enough of them. The majority of those contracting Covid-19 will suffer mild symptoms, the overwhelming majority will not require hospitalisation and only a tiny minority will die. I can accept that as a new normal. Life must include an element of risk and another complete shutdown of society is not a tenable proposition for two main reasons.

Firstly, the Dominic Cummings fiasco removed any moral authority the Government had. A second lockdown will be ignored for that reason alone. Secondly, the Government’s only loyalty is to the capitalist system that lives for profit and profit alone. They want everyone back at work to fill the pockets of the bosses and the schools open so teachers can continue to act as childminders and gaolers of working class youth. Interestingly universities, long the cradle or organised political dissent, are being encouraged to use on-line tutorials to stop gatherings of intelligent young radicals. Pubs and shops will remain open, with bafflingly different distancing and PPE regulations, for the purpose of maintaining a flow of money into the economy and liquid opium for the masses. As long as there’s beer to be supped and free to air Premier League football to watch, a workers’ insurrection can go on the back burner.

It looks like I’ll have to accept local non-league football as my sporting attraction until 2021; the decision not to proceed with admitting fans in Scotland until October has almost certainly put paid to my intended Caledonian japes. Even worse, all gigs are off for the foreseeable. Looks like I’ll have to stick with the retro telly when I come home at night and rip my breathing mask off.