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Dammit! I’m sick of being told I’m over sixty-five and must stay confined while the young pups are soon to be allowed out to play. Why, in this day and age, is sixty-six considered old? My father is 104, and admittedly he’s not the dashing young thing he once was, being as he’s wheelchair bound after a bad fall last year, but he’s still got all his marbles and can argue the toss with the best of them, even if his dentures do rattle around a bit in the process.

I appreciate the ‘still-wet-behind-the-ears’ kiddies, who are presently running the show in most governments, think of us as has-beens, no longer profitable to the nation. They’d love it if we all died off and saved them the cost of our pensions. Of course, it wouldn’t be considered politically expedient to actually state that on the BBC, or CNN, or whatever news channel is relevant to your country, but take my word for it, privately it’s what they wish for.

Of course, the one exception in all this is Donald Trump. He’s well over seventy and definitely not profitable to either America or the rest of the world. But we do have to remember that dementia can strike at any age. It would be kinder if he were gently led away to a waiting ambulance and escorted to a nice retreat somewhere where he could live out his remaining years in peace and quiet. Hopefully, they would take the rest of his repugnant family and camp followers with him and charge them with looking after him.

Okay, I’m sixty-six, but suppose I were sixty-four. Would I be safe to play out with the pups? And, if I were to have my sixty-fifth birthday a month later would I be expected to rush inside, slam the door, and remain confined until I pegged it, maybe, as in the case of my father, thirty or forty years later.

It’s so ludicrous it beggars belief. I appreciate that the older one is the higher the risk to life, but given they think all us old ‘uns are weak and doddery, rather than peg it from coronavirus I’m probably more likely to absent-mindedly step under a bus, fall of a railway platform and under a passing train, or die from an over-enthusiastic orgasm.

Admittedly, the chances of the latter are somewhat remote. Yet, given that there’s no bloody buses running at present and I never have use for a train, perhaps it’s not so unlikely after all.

Mind you, there is one vital ingredient missing. So girls, if you’re reading this and want to help me test my theory….

Meanwhile, come May 11th when France relaxes its lockdown –  I’m outa here!

Take a moment to listen to Jacinda Ardern, New Zealand’s Prime Minister who, unlike every other national leader at Easter, didn’t forget the little children who are also suffering from coronavirus lockdown.

How about if scientists everywhere got together and worked on how to create a couple of hundred clones of Jacinda to replace all the shitehawks presently occupying top national positions of power in the world.

I believe she could transform the planet for all of us.

Five million people live in New Zealand. So far, there have been sixteen deaths from Covid-19 and the figures are dropping.

^{My thanks to Jo at ‘Withdraw Myself’ for the video.}

 

 

 

Don’t you just hate that coronavirus? I mean, come on, three million of them will fit on a pinhead yet there’s seven and a half billion of us and even just one of my nose hairs is way too big to balance on a pinhead. And if I managed it the ends would hang over and droop down the sides like Mexican Pete’s moustache.

‘Lock-down’, what the hell sort of word is that? Presumably it’s the opposite of ‘lock-up’. Okay, but that means to make secure, to fasten the bolts, so if ‘lock-down’ is the opposite surely it’s a synonym for ‘unlock’ or ‘go free’, so why am I cooped up in this house and likely to be arrested if I step outside?

Of course, it’s politician-speak. Politicians never say what they mean, so instead of telling us, “Right, we’re going to lock you up in your houses and never let you out,” which could sound just a smidgeon authoritarian, they instead announce, “Now, all you super-duper people we’re going to jolly well have some fun and give you a lock-down for thirty days until we’ve sent this nasty old virus back where it came from.”

All of which seems almost to suggest we’re about to indulge in a month long sexual orgy and bags me that girl from number sixteen with the big knockers and botox lips.

Sadly, nothing is further from the truth. Here we are, stuck on our own with no company, no-one to talk to, and Zoom’s being hacked by pornos. Oh, well, one ray of sunshine, then!

I can go shopping once a week. It’s a nightmare. I wander around the supermarket with my trolley and I’m the only one in the store not wearing a mask. And nobody speaks. There’s not much point when your mouth and nose are grimly competing for the one cubic millimeter of air that’s getting through the ultra-heavy-grade canvas mask your grandmother made for you – “…and don’t you take it off. I sewed three layers to stop that germ getting through,” “Yes, but grandma, if it’ll  stop a virus an oxygen molecule will have no chance.”

I can’t wait to get out. The checkout girl mumbles something but all I can see is the little bit of white mask over her mouth pumping in and out when she speaks, like a pregnant mother’s stomach when the baby’s due. I shake my head. She could have been asking if I’d meet up for sex, but no, just if I had a store card.

At least, in France, you’re free to come and go at the supermarket. There’s no queuing. I believe the British are only allowed in one at a time and have to queue for six hours just to buy a bog roll.

Oh, well, that’s Brexit for you. You gotta laugh. Six hours for a bog roll! Oh dear,  the very thought of it almost makes the lock-down worthwhile.