Strange days when a footballer has more caring and clout than the entire Cabinet

Many things have surprised me during this lockdown, none of which has had much to do with politics, which ceased to surprise anyone a long time ago. Shock, yes; surprise, no. We are now discovering that a Premier League footballer, whose intervention forced a policy reversal on the provision of free school meals, has more grip, intelligence and foresight than the entire current Cabinet put together.

This has surely put paid to any notions that there is much that can even raise a public eyebrow any more. The big question that will now arise when a crisis looms or a decision has to be made will undoubtedly be: “What would Marcus Rashford do?” The default response being: “A lot better than Boris Johnson.”

Or Matt Hancock, who called him Daniel in a live TV interview, mistaking him, it would appear, for actor Daniel Radcliffe. Apt, perhaps that Mr Radcliffe’s best-known role has been as boy wizard Harry Potter, so you can easily see how Mr Hancock went wrong.

It’s obvious that anyone actually coming up with a bright idea or a practical suggestion for general betterment can only have done so by waving a magic wand, rather than applying sound sense and a caring attitude.

It was, of course, part of Mr Hancock’s contribution to coping with Covid to suggest that admittedly high-earning footballers should take a pay cut and “play their part”. And now, of course, he congratulates “Daniel” on “absolutely playing his part” and adds: “I’m really proud of him”, as if Mr Rashford’s well-thought-out and heart-felt contribution to the national good was his idea. Patronising doesn’t even begin to cover it.

And this in the same week that we read of the departure to the great cattery in the sky of Bob the Street Cat, the ginger stray who attached himself (as cats will) to troubled young James Bowen. He credited the special feline’s companionship with saving his life and setting him on the right path, as they became inseparable faces on the streets as Big Issue sellers before finding fame in books and films.

Strange to think that a scruffy, abandoned moggy and a homeless kid with an addiction problem have probably given the general populace more pleasure and understanding of the difficulties many face today than any amount of pontificating and finger-pointing from those in authority.

Another development which, certainly in this neck of the woods, was greeted with a mild level of eye-widening but a lot more tired sighing, was the news of just how delighted Johnny Foreigner is going to be to have travellers wishing to escape from Fortress Britain fetching up on their newly-pristine shores.

Now, I know that getting tourism back on track is both desirable and vital globally. Nothing (or at least very little) would give me greater pleasure than to beggar off to Tenerife for a fortnight in the foreseeable future.

What gets me is the jolly supposition that we will be welcomed with open arms (albeit, one or two-metre-long open arms). It is true, of course, that the tourist pound, dollar or euro may indeed be much sought after in the next few months as this tattered industry attempts to rebuild itself from the tarmac up. But it’s a big assumption that they’ll be so keen to pocket our seedy sterling that they’ll overlook the fact we are travelling to their country from a nation with the highest Covid death rate in Europe and the third highest in the world; whose prime minister is being mentioned (and not in a good way) in the same breath as Trump, Putin and Bolsonaro and that our government is currently an international laughing stock.

I am sure intrepid purveyors of holidays and partakers of same will prove me wrong in the not-very-distant future by flying off in their mask-wearing glee with 14-day quarantine nought but a socially-distanced memory.

I just can’t help thinking, on behalf of the host nations, that it’s a bit like no sooner getting rid of one plague than inviting another.

Getting back to the element of surprise, little has fair took me aback more than the revelation, only last week, that my husband, a Dundonian born and bred, had never eaten a fudge doughnut. Pehs galore. Bridies with gay abandon. Empire biscuits to a band playing. How did he miss the fudge doughnut? A situation that had to be remedied and PDQ at that.

But I think I may have discovered the reason. We had a friend who lived and worked for some years in the tropics and opined that the only way to eat a mango was in the bath.

Now, eating a fudge doughnut with your fingers is a sensual pleasure few can resist. But when it came to the moment of truth, there I was, liberally festooned with icing, sugar and custard and there he was, sitting opposite me, tidily tackling this iconic bun with a knife and fork.

A case of doughnut disturb? I rest my cake…

This put paid to notions there is much that can raise a public eyebrow

CAMPAIGNER: Manchester United player Marcus Rashford shamed Westminster into funding free school meals during the summer