‘Lockdown 2’ is a nightmare – but here’s how we’ll get through it

Before we begin, let’s get one thing straight. During the first lockdown, this country made a glaring mistake. We all know what it was. And we’ve got to make sure we don’t make it again. This time round, in the name of all that’s holy, let’s not stockpile any more loo rolls.

I’ve seen one or two reports that this bizarre mania is returning. Sorry, but no. We’ve got to nip it in the bud. Not just because it’s embarrassing, but because it’s illogical. People panic-buy loo roll because they think we could run out of loo roll – but the only reason we could run out of loo roll is because of people panic-buying loo roll.

And anyway: loo roll is no help in fighting this particular disease. We don’t need any more loo roll than usual. At no point has Prof Chris Whitty stood at a Downing Street lectern, stared grimly down the barrel of the camera, and said: “The key symptom of Covid-19 is unmistakable. You feel as if you’ve eaten six vindaloos and a dodgy prawn sandwich.”

It makes no sense. The key symptom of Covid-19 is a bad cough. Yet you don’t see hordes of panicky dads in Costco piling their trolleys with crates of Benylin.

None of this is to say, however, that I’m against stockpiling full stop. All I’m saying is that a grown-up, mature, sensible country should not be stockpiling loo rolls. What a grown-up, mature, sensible country should instead be stockpiling, in my view, is booze.

Let me explain. The pandemic has not driven me to alcoholism. Nor am I advocating a month of 24/7 bacchanalian anarchy. What I mean is this.

Dreadful though Lockdown 2 may be, we’ve got to get through it. And focusing on how dreadful it is will only make it feel more dreadful still. So we’ve got to find ways to lift ourselves. To steel ourselves. To give ourselves as many things as possible to look forward to.

What I’ve been doing, therefore, is diligently assembling a topnotch stockpile of champagne, wine, rum, gin, single malt and any number of fancy foreign beers I’d never heard of before. A lovely big hoard of booze, stored away for the winter, as if I were some kind of dipsomaniac squirrel.

I haven’t actually been drinking it. I just love the thought that my hoard is there. There’s something comforting about its mere existence. It makes me feel like Winnie the Pooh, lovingly counting his pots of honey.

That may sound a tiny bit eccentric. But there is a serious point here. This new lockdown will be different from the first. Where the first was hot and sunny, this one will be cold and dark. No more deckchairs in the garden. This time we really are staying home.

So what we need to do, as the long nights loom, is to make our homes feel like burrows or badger setts. Sanctuaries, retreats. Warm, cosy Hobbit-holes with overflowing larders, and all the treats and self-indulgences we can stretch to. Like my glittering grotto of ale and champagne.

We’ve also got to do what our grandparents always told us – and make our own fun. In a few days, it’s my 40th birthday. First, we booked a weekend in York – but then the Government put York into Tier 2. So we booked a weekend down the road in Folkestone – but then the Government banned overnight stays.

So now I’m going to celebrate with a picnic. Admittedly, it’s a picnic on the living room rug. But I’m looking forward to it. In many ways, it’ll be better than a picnic in the park. Proper glasses and cutlery. No wasps. Nobody’s dog jamming a hind leg in the hummus. I can’t wait. The Government can ban me from trains, it can ban me from Airbnbs, but it can’t ban me from my own living room. Well, not yet.

A friend of mine is taking an even more practical approach to lockdown. He can no longer go to the local country pub, so he’s opening his own. Or rather, he’s converting his summer house into one, for his and his wife’s personal use. He’s insulated the walls. Installed a bar. Bought some optics. Hung packets of Scampi Fries on the wall. He’s even got one of those black rubber drip-mats for sitting glasses on. All it needs now is a log fire, an unfriendly cat and a portrait of the Queen Mother, and it’s good to go.

All right, so not all of us have a summer house we can convert. But not to worry. Thanks to a legal loophole, we should still be able to get a pint from a pub delivered to our home – provided we order it by phone, text, or even, believe it or not, by post. Seriously. Ordering a beer by letter. Imagine.

“Dear Sir or Madam, I hope this finds you well. Just a brief note to say that I would like a pint of Moretti and some roasted peanuts. I enclose a cheque for £6.49. Yours faithfully, M Deacon Esq.”

I might do it, just to see what happens. Maybe, two days later, you get a text from a courier firm, telling you your pint will be served between 7.30am and 6.30pm. And if you’re not in, they’ll serve it to your neighbour.

One last thought to lift the spirits. Things may seem grim, but decades from now, I promise, we’ll be hailed as heroes. Future generations will speak with awe of our endurance and resolve. Hollywood will make films about us.

Not easy, of course, since the action will be wholly confined to the characters’ living rooms, and there’s only so much narrative tension a director can hope to squeeze out of people lying on their sofas while binge-watching Schitt’s Creek. Still, I have no doubt that audiences will be stirred by our sacrifice.

As long as they don’t hear about our weird obsession with loo rolls.

Things may seem grim but, decades from now, we’ll be hailed as heroes