Six months on and a long road ahead
I am no student of Shakespeare and so I’m not exactly sure when Richard the Third had his moment.
But the last week of September seems a heck of an early time to be starting the winter of our discontent.
It doesn’t seem like six months ago when a solemn Boris Johnson sat as his desk in No 10 and told us that though tough times lay ahead, we’d come out the other side if we all stuck together.
And it doesn’t seem like six days ago when the same man sat at the same desk and said the same b**** y thing!
Yes folks, six months in – and we’re now told we’ve got at least six winter months of discontent to go.
All that seems to have changed is that Coronavirus is now better known as Covid- 19.
I can remember when face coverings were deemed to be largely ineffective and might even cause public alarm.
Now? I can’t legally pour a pint of lager without wearing one.
We’ve been told to work from home – get back to work – and now... work from home again!
Last month, the Government urged us to “eat out to help out”.
Last week, they ordered every single bar and restaurant in the country to be emptied by 10pm.
Last month, the priority was to get students back to their lecture halls.
Last week, it had changed to locking them up in their residential halls.
These ‘ restrictions’ don’t stop at changing from week to week – they vary from region to region.
Last week I watched freshers at an English university cavorting to Ed Sheeran under flashing disco lights.
But I was watching it from a bar that has been lawfully gagged into a gloomy, muzzled silence.
I don’t think I’m a cynical guy. But yesterday, standing in my muted pub, I wondered what kind of country makes it illegal to hear your First Minister tell you how many Scots lost their lives the day before?
And what kind of God forsaken state are we in when I can’t watch my grandson eat his breakfast in his high chair . . . but he can watch me eat mine in a café up the street?
If people like me are showing the first symptoms of cycnisism – then God help us when Santa is approaching.
As one of my punters summed up “I’ve had Christmas dinner with my children for 27 years – and 27 Nicola Sturgeons won’t stop me this year”.
Boris Johnston has promised to
“consider Christmas options” – but he may have to consider his own options long before that.
Since the rise of Covid, major Government decisions have been made in the Cabinet room – then passed to the Commons for a nod of approval.
As I write, at least 30 rebel Tory backbenchers want to see the power to debate and vote returned to Parliament.
And as each day passes, the whole country seems to be shifting towards polarisation.
Those who argue that the cure is now more debilitating than the disease are gaining in credence and in numbers.
I’m no epidemiologist – in fact, I’m delighted I managed to get the word passed my spell checker!
But I can understand their assertion that Covid is essentially here to stay and regrettably, a new ‘ cause of death’ to add to the tragic list of cancer, heart disease, dementia, strokes and respiratory failure.
Of all the above, cancer alone claims 16,000 Scottish lives every year – that’s almost four times more than Covid deaths in Scotland so far.
Then again, if giving Covid “herd immunity” status is really the best way forward – why are so many ‘ experts’ not sharing this viewpoint?
As you can tell, I’m as confused as the next man!
I’ll confess to having sombre, sleepless moments when I think how our children and grandchildren are being deprived.
Do they not deserve what we had – play parks, school sports, parties, school trips, visits to the swimming pool, sleepovers and holidays etc?
I’ve had a good run. It’s their time now.
But the next morning, I wake up and think of all the fun I’m planning to have when I finally retire. Covid ain’t getting me, mate! The only certainty in all this uncertainty is that something’s got to change.
Something really major needs to happen soon.
I just pray it’s a guy in a lab coat holding a test tube and saying, “You know . . . I think I’ve got something here . . .”