Oh shite! BJ’s back!

Right. Who’s had enough of this?

Who’s fully intending to just blow this all off and see if we can’t try this herd immunity theory for ourselves? Or shall we stick with our Prime Minister’s strategy of Not Seen and Not Heard Immunity?

Some say this lockdown is bringing out the best in people. Me, I’d say it’s bringing out the truest spirit in people, and not always for the better. If, for example, you achieved a lot of success through craven mendacity then it’s very unlikely that that will change when you’re put under pressure. Every time a government minister potters out in front of those flaccid Union Jacks I feel that the nation has turned into an overly tolerant headmaster who’s giving them all one last chance to ‘fess up before we expel them from our collective rears like the foetid balls of gas they really are.

While Johnson recuperates in his elegant sty, and his expectant fiancée wonders how this perennially late responder was so premature on that one occasion, we have been led by one Dominic Raab. D-Raab, as the legend on the cardboard packaging read when he first arrived at the Foreign Office. There’s been a reasonable amount of sympathy for a man who looks (and occasionally talks) like central casting’s go-to-Nazi Uber-Lieutenant. How can you possibly fill in for the Blonde Bullsh*tter? Well, turns out you can massage figures and creatively lie in less flagrant a way.

Boris is back now so God knows how Allison Pearson’s going to cope without slipping off to rub one out every five minutes. In fact I envisage Andrew Neil leading the Daily Telegraph in a sponsored Spaff For The NHS to greet the Second Cummings.

Sadly that won’t mean less of Matt Hancock. Matt, it seems to me, possibly cowed by the situation, talks utter bullocks, gives us more and more bum steers and gets less bullish by the day, the dozy ‘effer. Dreadful cattle puns aside, therewas a time when he smoulders as if he imagined he was Aidan Turner playing Matt Hancock in the movie adaptation of his autobiography HANCOCK: THE MAN THAT SAVED A NATION. Time and the terminal decline of far too many human beings seems to have restored a wretched back-catalogue of platitudes that you can boil down into three pithy soundbites:
‘This is unprecedented’
‘Our amazing NHS staff’
‘We’re ramping up the PPE/Ventilators/level of deceit*’

*delete as applicable

Of the others only Michael Gove seems ready to poke his puckered package of processed piss over the parapet. Gove has been practising social distancing from the Truth for his whole adult life and so is a safe if slippery pair of hands right now.

Meanwhile Priti Patel tells us shoplifting is down on last year. That’s probably because shop-opening, and indeed shop-owning, is down on last year, but you know, some people will make any stat look bad won’t they?

Liz Truss has said very little, so no change there. Even her longest orations contain as much substance as a cheesy wotsit. As for the rest of ‘em, well I’m not saying this cabinet is thick, but there are actual cabinets, fully functioning and made from finest English beechwood, that have higher IQs than the lot of them put together.

Meanwhile people die in their hundreds every day and Premier League footballers invite their mates round. Latest Numpty is Moise Kean, the best teenager playing in Europe (after Mbappe) this time last year, and until recently struggling to ease the agoraphobic Theo Walcott out of the first eleven.
Kean, who has spent his entire time at Goodison socially distancing himself from the first team, took it upon himself to host a party in his apartment. Now don’t get me wrong, he’s on top dollar every week so chances are his apartment is like a flaming national museum compared to the eight people two rooms horror some families are going through. But I fancy that the old two metres apart is hard to sustain in an environment like that.

But once again we are hoping that footballers like Kean, Grealish and a collection of Arsenal halfwits are going to lead by example and well, they’re not. Not if the PM is shaking hands with Covid-19 patients, not if toffs left, right and centre are blithering on about the impositions on their personal liberty and how appalled they are by it. I’d love them to try other ways to limit their freedoms once this is all over. Things like poverty, zero hours contracts, reliance on food banks, see how they seriously hinder your ability to have fun. I mean I’d love to be gallivanting about infecting the relatives of vulnerable old people too, but I’m just not that much of a self-centred c**t.

Of course, sport would be a wonderful distraction from all this. And I fear that this season is going to be written off, which only the most shite-minded fan would find acceptable given Liverpool’s majestic form. If they have to finish it behind closed doors I wouldn’t much mind. If they can’t, we could just say Liverpool won it anyway. Cos they did.

 Having said that, I wouldn’t mind everything just starting from scratch. We could even have the Brexit vote again, given that the unintended consequence of the Government’s hopeless handling of this whole crisis is the death of the age group most likely to have voted Leave.

Mind you, they were right though, eh? Imagine being part of an organisation that cooperates over testing and ventilators and PPE provision? We’d be in a right state now wouldn’t we? We’d be losing as many citizens as Spain or Italy and we’d be relying on foreigners to pick our fruit.

Thank God we’re doing it our way.