Corona Christmas is going to turn us all into criminals
Not even Agatha Christie could have dreamt up a twist like this. Before he entered Downing Street, Boris Johnson was, above all else, a vigorous defender of personal liberty. A tireless opponent of the nanny state. An implacable foe of bureaucratic bossiness. If he believed in anything at all, it was freedom.
And what does he do when he gets into power? He makes Christmas dinner a criminal offence.
No one could have seen that one coming. The man himself certainly didn’t. Only a couple of months ago, he told the country he was looking forward to a “more significant return to normality” by the end of the year, and declared that “the good solid common sense” of the British people would see us through.
Yet now, it seems, his faith has wavered. His resolve has shrivelled. Because here he is, just a couple of months later, banning all social gatherings of more than six people. So unless this new law is lifted soon (unlikely), the traditional family Christmas is cancelled.
Or is it? Actually, I don’t think it can be – whatever the Government says. In practice, cancelling the traditional family Christmas would be impossible.
It doesn’t matter what laws the Government lays down, nor how many Boris Busybodies – aka Covid marshals – it recruits. The fact is this. Every Christmas, around 12million people travel across this country to visit their families. And if, this December, 12million people – or half that, or just a quarter, or even a sixth – decide that, to hell with the new limit, they’re going to spend Christmas with their families anyway, there are no practical means by which the Government can stop them.
What are the Boris Busybodies going to do? Erect a police road block at the end of every street? Ban the sale of petrol? Spend the whole of December going from house to house, slashing the tyres of every Volvo in Britain? It can’t be done. If people want to visit their sister Muriel or their uncle Clive, they will visit their sister Muriel or their uncle Clive. Not because they’re selfish and reckless. They aren’t planning an all-night rave for 400 people. They’re planning a turkey lunch and a game of charades. Because they’re responsible, intelligent adults who have spent the best part of a year dutifully following all the necessary precautions, and are now well capable of assessing the risks for themselves, and acting sensibly.
The Government, of course, does not agree. And so it is certainly possible that, no sooner has the extended family turned on the television to watch Her Majesty’s festive address together, they will hear a stern knock on the door. A local constable has arrived, alerted by reports of illicit carolsinging, or unauthorised cracker-pulling. The truth is, though, that he can scowl and harrumph all he wants – but there’s nothing he can do. Because the response is simple.
“I’m terribly sorry, officer. You’re right: I’ve just counted, and there are seven of us here. I could have sworn it was only six. I just clean forgot my sister was married. If only I’d remembered before we got here. Unfortunately, however, I’m unable to drive us home, because I’ve already had two glasses of red, some port and a Buck’s Fizz. You wouldn’t want me to drink and drive, would you, officer? What’s that? You’re offering us a lift home? That’s awfully generous, but are you sure you’ve got time? It’s just that this is Falmouth, and we live in Frinton-on-sea. Which is seven-and-ahalf hours from here. Terribly long way for you to drive, officer. And after all, we wouldn’t want to spoil your Christmas…”
Say what you like about Donald
Trump, but he’s great for business. The journalism business, anyway. Every time he attacks a newspaper or magazine, its sales shoot up. A week ago, after the Atlantic alleged that he’d disrespected US war veterans, he dismissed it as “a dying magazine”. Subscriptions rocketed. It’s the same story with the American newspapers he’s moaned about. The more he moans, the more they sell. He said The New York Times was “failing”. It gained over a million subscribers.
You’d think a man of his vast entrepreneurial acumen would have seized on this as a business opportunity. He should be charging for his services. In exchange for a suitable fee, he’ll savage your publication – and send sales soaring. Ten thousand dollars to call you fake news, $100,000 to call you failing losers who’ll be bust in a month, and $1,000,000 to call you lying Marxist traitors to the American flag.
Since he’s saving our industry, you’d think we’d be nicer about him. Then again, if we were nicer about him, he wouldn’t be saving our industry.
A few months ago, in my
lockdown diary column, I wrote about phonetic spelling. In the window of someone’s house I’d seen a poster drawn by a child, captioned “my famlys raymbo”. I loved that. Just as I loved the little report my son wrote for school, around that time, about how a very old man colled captin tom had rased lots of munny for the nashenel helth servis.
Phonetic spelling, I wrote, was not only more charming than standard spelling. It was more logical. These little children could teach us a lesson.
There’s just one flaw. The English Spelling Society has published six new versions of Hamlet’s soliloquy, each with alternative spellings, and invited people to pick their favourite. There’s a “see ov trubls” and a “see of trubels”, an “out’raijuss” and an “outraejus”, an “opoezing” and an “o’poasing”.
Now I see the problem. There are so many different ways to spell a word phonetically. So no matter what system of spelling you have, a child still has to memorise the “right” way.
Nitemayr.
follow Michael Deacon on Twitter @Michaelpdeacon; read more at telegraph.co.uk/opinion