Michael DEACON
No way were we going to fly abroad this year. Far too much fuss and bother. So instead we booked a nice family holiday right here in Britain. Simple and stress-free. Or so we thought. What we soon realised, however, was that Covid has made all holidays a nuisance. Even the ones you take in your own country.
Not that there was anything wrong with the place we were staying. Like more or less everyone else in England, we’d decided to go to Cornwall. Lovely old-fashioned hotel. Beautiful grounds. Immaculate sea view. The sort of place Poirot goes to take a week’s break between cases, only to find the croquet lawn heaped with poisoned playboys.
The place must have been wonderful, pre-covid. But what with all the new rules and restrictions, it was now almost impossible to relax.
Take breakfast. No more buffets these days. Far too big a risk of swapping germs over the hash browns. Instead, we had to remain at our table, and fill in a lengthy form, ticking the box beside each breakfast item we wished to request.
At great length, care of a visor-clad waiter, our order would arrive – in portions that were pitifully small. A blob of baked beans. A splat of scrambled egg. A single slender sliver of bacon (maximum permitted number: two). Microscopic, next to the vast mounds we would shovel on our plates in the buffet days. But we couldn’t help ourselves to more. And we didn’t dare ask for a second form in case we looked greedy (or were charged double). So we just nibbled meekly on what we’d been given. Pre-covid I would try to lose weight before going on holiday. Now I lose weight during it.
Then there were the rooms. For the sake of the staff ’s safety, these were never cleaned during our stay. No beds made, no towels replaced. Then, the morning we checked out, we were ordered to strip our beds and stuff all linen into polythene sacks – before legions of maids in hazmat suits and chemical backpacks were sent in to decontaminate our quarters. It was like
Fawlty Towers crossed
Chernobyl.
Every few feet you would bump into a liquid soap dispenser. Especially important to use when you were visiting the lavatory. First, wash your hands so you don’t spread germs to the door handle. Then wash your hands to get rid of any germs you’ve caught from the door handle. Then wash your hands for the usual reason. Then wash them again to get rid of any germs you’ve caught from opening the door on the way out. And indeed the germs you’ve caught from the button on the soap dispenser itself. I don’t mean to sound critical. I certainly don’t blame the proprietors. They were only trying to keep everyone safe.
And anyway, it gave us a good excuse to moan. Which, at the end of the day, is what a British holiday is all about. Then again, I still haven’t told you the most troubling aspect of my holiday. And it had nothing to do with the pandemic.
I happened to have packed a book by Jeremy Clarkson. One morning, my six-year-old son saw it lying on the bedside table, pointed excitedly at the photo of Clarkson’s face on the cover, and chirped, “Look, Mama! It’s Dada!”
A disturbing moment. As far as I could see, it had to mean one of two things. Either my son thinks I’m the spitting image of Jeremy Clarkson. Or, unbeknown to me, Jeremy Clarkson is his real biological father.
I don’t think it can be option one, because beyond having the same number of fingers, arms, legs and heads, Clarkson and I don’t look remotely alike. So, by process of elimination, I can only conclude that it’s option two. Which means that, in summer 2013, my wife must have had an improbable secret affair with the then presenter of Top Gear. And the result was our – or I suppose I should say their – son.
As you’ll appreciate, this revelation is taking some getting used to. But maybe I should look on the bright side. After all, Clarkson is rich, popular and hugely successful. So if my, or rather his, son takes after him, then all to the good. Just so long as I don’t serve him the wrong brand of chicken nuggets for dinner, or I dread to think what he might do to me.
But perhaps there’s another way to look at this. The boy didn’t really mean what he said. He was just winding me up. Deliberately trying to cause uproar by saying something shocking and outrageous.
In which case, I suppose Clarkson really must be his dad.
Some good news. Live music may
finally be on the way back. There’s just one catch.
It will have to be very, very quiet. According to scientists, live music is potentially dangerous during the pandemic, because the singer might unwittingly shower everyone with hideous great globules of disease. But Jonathan Reid, a professor of physical chemistry at the University of Bristol, has now said that singing softly would “really reduce the risk”.
Which is encouraging. Although possibly not for fans of heavy rock. If the singer is only allowed to whisper, the band will have to swap their electric guitars for something much gentler. We’ll end up watching Napalm Death on the ukulele. Nine Inch Nails on the recorder. Guns N’ Roses will become Comb N’ Paper.
Meanwhile, health and safety inspectors will order head-banging to be replaced by thoughtful nodding. And no more smashing up all the instruments on stage at the end of the gig. Instead, each instrument must be carefully and responsibly dismantled, piece by piece, using a screwdriver.
It might not be ideal. But rock bands will just have to adapt. I look forward to hearing Rage Against the Machine’s cover of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and Slipknot doing 4’33”