Patience: Zero/We’ve met again
It’s been a while since I wrote to you, my great readership of 2-3 people, but you’ll have to forgive me, it’s now 120 days into my own lockdown and I’ve been busy screaming at walls, crying into biscuit tins and then devouring the salty tinged chocolate covered goodness with the inevitable air of a man being marched to the electric chair – I don’t want to do it, but I have no choice. If there is one lesson I think my 2020 can give to you all, it’s to never smash your femur just before the outbreak of a global pandemic or you’ll end up like late stage Howard Hughes – and never going out, getting crazily unkempt long hair and overly long fingernails is less cool if you’re broke, living in a small house, and haven’t invented a new airplane.
The government finally locked us down around the same time that Isis declared militants shouldn’t go on suicide missions in Europe anymore, showing, if nothing else, we really do have more in common than divides us.
Listening to Dame Vera promising us ‘We’ll meet again’, like all proper Brits should, I’ve been splitting my time between the little bit of paid work I have, finishing writing a book that I unconsciously seem to be scribing with the urgency of George RR Martin if he didn’t have any readers desperately waiting for it, and writing a sitcom. The sitcom seems like a particularly Quixotic endeavour, being as most broadcasters wouldn’t touch the subject with a bargepole even if it was from a successful writer. But, I’m nothing if not a man determined to put extra obstacles onto an obstacle course he’s already failed to complete many times before.
And, of course, no sooner had we finished writing our lists of all the amazing things we were going to do to improve ourselves during lockdown, than the clamour to let us all get back to risking our lives began. Before long, Ian Duncan Smith was spewing his thoughts onto the British public via every eugenicist’s third favourite toilet read The Telegraph, trumpeting the oncoming kamikaze recruitment drive of the British public. They had clearly imbibed the stay at home message and successfully flattened the curve, which was incredibly disappointing; the balding Fauxdolf Hitler wanted every person he wasn’t a personal friend of to get out there and die, like we did so bravely during the war. Writing with the fervour of a man who can only achieve sexual climax if he watches two poor people beating each other to death – which to be fair, he has been missing since the lockdown cancelled Saturday night entertainment at Jacob Rees Mogg’s house – he successfully laid the groundwork for Latin spouting bag of discarded ham bits Boris to tell everyone to get out there and jolly well die, making sure they made more coin for their evil overlords in the process.
So, now, it’s time for us to get back to near ‘normal’. The Isis travel advisory still remains in place. It turns out their commanders consider the lives of their suicide bombers more valuable than their work, something which Boris puts down to their lack of Blitz spirit. Just as everyone returns to work, packing themselves into moving petri dishes that pass for public transport, the work from home job that had kept my ‘weak and venerable’ ass ensconced in the relative safety of my own home has now come to an end. Luckily, my sudden lack of income has coincided with the end of the project to house the homeless during this crisis, so at least my poverty and potential homelessness now has an air of added jeopardy that I’ve been so desperately missing in the last few months.
I’d like to pretend this was my most pressing concern, but truth be told, all that’s on my mind is that I’ve put so much weight on during my incarceration, Jacqui has now hidden the biscuits and won’t tell me where, no matter how much I cry and scream. This could’ve been the crumb that broke the camel’s back, but as a Brit, I will be doing what every one of my fellow country people should in times of crisis. In my case, stoically singing to the Hobnobs with the reserve we showed back in our finest hour:
“We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, but I’ll know I’ll eat you again, some sunny day.”