I don’t know about you but I’m busy putting up sandbags and barbed wire around the hobbit house here on Trinity Mead. I’m getting ready for the UK’S July 4th Independence Day er…celebrations. Or as I call it, A day to remember. July 4th VV day. (Victory over Virus Day).
I apologise for being a wet blanket here but really, is it wise to open the pubs after a long, long lock-down, on a Weekend?
You know as well as I do what the British are like with their weekends?
We all know that even in normal times 5 days of working on say, Stratford upon Avon’s infamous Onion Fields, the relief of two days off otherwise known as the weekend, is quite enough for insanity to break out on a Friday night.
And these are not normal times.
This is dangerous. No-one (hardly) has been at work. The normal rules do not apply here.
Everybody has been at home for months. With nothing to do but grow their hair, engage in dubious activities to relive the boredom and get fat. There is desperation and an electric anticipation in the air.
Let loose suddenly from self-isolation, the pavements of the evening of a day to remember, July 4th VV Day (Victory over Virus Day), are going to be full of fat, hairy drunk people who can’t help colliding with each other.
Oh, sure it will all start off friendly enough…
Friendships will be re-kindled.
There will be banter.
Rounds will be bought.
Tales will be told.
Songs will be sung. (There might even be dancing).
(Then, I predict, around 10.00 pm?)
Social Distancing will break down.
’ere you just spilt my pint’.
Insults will be traded.
Punches will be thrown…
The virus is going to be in its element. It won’t believe its luck. Just when it thought it was going the way of its cousin Bubonic, it will find a new lease of life and rise to the occasion. It will leap joyfully from body to body devouring its prey as it goes…
Discarded news and chip paper litter the streets of a deserted Stratford upon Avon. One or two people dressed in rags go through the contents of the street rubbish bins. The shops that are open are guarded by burly uniformed security armed with Tazers.
A dirty 4×4 coming from the direction of Tiddington Road rushes into town in a desperate effort to find a well-stocked supermarket. It runs out of petrol on Bridge Street. Within five minutes it is enveloped by a crawling mass of naked, starving people eager, desperate even to scavenge what they can. The security guards look on wearily at the familiar sight. Within minutes the 4×4 is reduced to skeletal remains, its occupants, vanished.
Meanwhile, on Trinity Mead, wielding a large and spiked club, the Stratfordian, with a dead dog over his shoulder returns from a hunting trip. Acknowledging his father’s return, the Stratfordian’s son pulls the lever that opens the…(to be continued)…