Stuck indoors with only my virtual non-practicing sex worker ‘Mitzi’ for company….
I awaken from my early evening slump to see Boris Bunter – Owl of the Political Remove – looking like a cornered rat on the telly, telling everyone to stop touching each other and take their misery indoors. It’s like that dream I had years ago when all the pubs in the high street were open, but none of them would let me in… I felt so helpless and desperate… Actually I’m not sure whether I imagined that or not. Maybe I was drunk. But the point is, No women, no whisky, no bloody fun. So now here we are…
I stab myself with a fork to make sure it is real and not some Gin soaked nightmare. Turns out it is real and while I am stemming the flow of crimson with the Sunday supplement, our chief prefect bangs on about turning off the lights and setting the Rozzers on us if we so much as venture out for a fresh Lemon.
I am appalled. Bunter sounds like a 30 shilling Churchill with his stunted delivery, oak encrusted furniture and limp Union Jack at half-mast. Would the great Leader of blessed memory herself have called the troops out and closed Dorothy Perkins? Would she rhyming slang. She would have told us to buck up, take our medicine (mine would have been a large one and hold the tonic), stop whining and get on with it. But then her brand of politics always allowed for collateral damage. Not like nowadays where you can get sued for mentioning that some people need better manners than to call an old soldier ‘a racist, sexist idiot!’ I ask you… I’m not an idiot!
Where was I? Oh yes, Bunter closing the curtains… Anyway it is a tragedy I suppose, especially if gentlemen of a certain age and liver condition are currently ripe for plucking by the grim reaper. I don’t want to die of some Chinese bat-flu, gasping for breath in the car park of a National Health museum… I want to go down fighting, bar stool in hand, gin-soaked and protecting my honour from some stick thin craft beer types, who won’t accept that George Best was the finest sportsman ever to grace a field of play. Can Lino Messy down 6 bottles of Pomeroy’s finest and still go on the pitch and make opposition defenders weep? I think not. Or that other one O’Ronald. He doesn’t look like he could stand more than the sniff of a barmaids apron….
Except I can’t go down to the local hostileries and draw my last breath of course… everything is closed. The country is now shut and who knows when I can once again stand in an English Pub, under an English heaven, talking b—–ks to anyone unlucky enough to be in aural range. God I miss the old days. Even if it was just last Sunday…
Bulk and The Devil 