Lockdown3 will soon be in the past tense but even with restrictions easing, it’s hard to imagine life returning to what it once was.
A year ago, Boris, flanked by Union Jacks on his Downing Street pulpit, claimed the UK could in 12 weeks ‘send coronavirus packing’. Listening to him fall on the old-school rhetoric that in 1914 reassured war ‘would be over by Christmas’ – the same British spirit that insists the band keeps playing as the ship goes down – I thought to myself: Well, that’s us done for.
Facing Covid, Boris did not however, like some pumped-up General, stay behind the line, or take his aristocratic seat on a lifeboat and keep distance; ironically either stance, this time, would have been preferable. Instead, in an idiotic move only chivalry can muster, and completely against the recommendation of Government scientific advisers, Boris visited a hospital where ‘a few… were actually coronavirus patients’ and ‘shook hands’ (wait for it) ‘with everybody’.
If you are wondering where the recipe is, just keep scrolling down because I haven’t got a jump widget yet, and this is far from over…
Perhaps lifelong Etonian pal Charles Spencer, by osmosis of proximity, planted a notion in the PM’s hay-topped head that he could pull a Diana? Boris failed there, testing positive for coronavirus shortly after, as would health secretary Hancock, and chief medical adviser Whitty. Boris, no doubt nearer, my god, to thee, ended up in ICU, almost taking his cabinet with him.
Thanks to the NHS and his title, it was not our PM’s time to ascend the ladder. But how many people he shook hands with that day, or any after, was never fully investigated. There were undoubtedly more casualties, but the press was far too busy focusing on the fate of the man at the helm.
A year on and there’s the vaccine rollout to be grateful for, but that doesn’t shrug the feeling Boris likes the title more than the job. Back on the podium a few days ago, flanked by flags, Whitty and Vallance, Boris looked, as ever, like he just woke up.
With gyms shut and an insomniac mind working overtime pardon me for mulling over this detail of his speech:
‘…on Monday the 12th I will be going to the pub myself – and cautiously but irreversibly raising a pint of beer to my lips.’
I have never thought the act of bringing a pint to my lips as irreversible, because the action is reversible: you could change your mind and put the pint down, but you’ve presumably paid for the pint so why not drink it? It is reasonable to think that most would like to drink booze they’ve paid for, so why use this word at all? What does our obfuscating squealer really mean?
Does he mean that when Monday’s pint meets his lips, it will never leave? That would be too impractical to be taken literally. Does he mean he will down it in one? And that by strength of volition, no force will derail him of his intention to do so? Even if he gets heckled?
Or is he speaking allegorically? Is this pint his Golding-talisman for Co-Brexit and he/we shall drink that pint, come what may? Is that why he balances the irreversible act with caution?
Or is this irreversible pint a secret fist pump to his alma mater and the Bullingdon Club, who know full well, the irreversible action of consuming beer, is also reversible, if you throw it all up: at Oktoberfest, people do this to extend their drinking day; perhaps a habit that extends to all drinking clubs? In any case, this paradox suits the fickle beast of politics well, conveniently working for policy makers who don’t like following their own rules.
You see, it’s not quantum physics that puzzles me but the fact that we are continuously told that prime Boris’s befuddled speeches make him relatable when in fact what they make him is dangerous. Ignoring the berrufled delivery and focusing instead on what is said, there’s plenty to pull apart: the wordplay between ‘certification’ and ‘passport’ being another example. No pressure on parents dealing with home-schooling but shouldn’t Animal Farm be mandatory? It’s pretty short and most students like that.
I say this because having tutored Eng. Lit for 20 years, before I quit there were plenty that bemoaned the prospect of reading Moby Dick, me being one. But then there are still plenty who fall for Boris’s je-ne-sais-what-the-actual-fuck-quoi, his bumbling buffoonery turning them weak at the knees. Ergo, laziness does not always equal incompetence: make no mistake, this is a man continuously on the move.
Plenty of anecdotes to choose from, but I will take this from 1987 to illustrate the point: our budding political lothario turns up to his Shropshire nuptials late, with neither shoes nor trousers. Allegra, the Oxford-educated woman waiting down the aisle commented later that the wedding was the end of their relationship, not the beginning; a statement so steeped in wisdom that it fits every engagement Boris has held since, private or public.
Why should any of this matter? I voted for him after all. Well, here’s the rub: fast forward to 2020 and annoyingly the litany of marriages, divorces, annulments and affairs along with a collateral of children gives enough press fodder to divert attention from news that matters to Boris’s private life. 2021, and this topic finally warrants attention: don’t mind what consenting adults do behind closed doors, but when you use tax payers’ money to fund your insatiable wandering libido, yeah it does fucking matter.
So, here we are: beer gardens about to re-open with most of us probably at one stage or another of liver cirrhosis, in limbo, and/or depressed, knowing, as we sip pints, pinot gris, ethanol or whatever, that unlike people voted into office, our relationship with Covid will probably never end.
And then there is the other, exhausting realisation: understanding the truth of what Orwell said then but feeling it now:
‘In our age, there is no such thing as ‘keeping out of politics’. All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred and schizophrenia’.
Anyway, this pork should be cooked over hot coals.
Serves 2, or 3, making approx. 12 bamboo skewers at 4 inches long
Ingredients:
- 500g pork neck (try to get Ibérico for the extra marbling)
Instructions:
- Soak the skewers for an hour in water so they do not burn later
- Slice the pork neck into cubes: 3 or 4 pieces should fit on each skewer. I alternate fatty pieces with more lean cubes so that every piece benefits the merits of the others
- Cooking over lump wood charcoal, do not put the skewers on when the coal is at its hottest (we do a round of chorizo first as that can handle high heat). Instead, wait till the heat is moderate – all the coals should be completely grey
- Turn the skewers frequently, taking care that the pork does not burn; when the fat drips, the coal can flame but these flames you can and should fan out
FU2020 