Friends. Now is a time of crisis and uncertainty, of complications and sullenness the likes of which have not been seen for half a century or possibly longer.
The Bovona Virus has a name. It also has a face. The face that it has does not have as many eyes as I do but they look upon all as a mess to clear up. Not one of those easy messes where you sort of sweep everything into your hands and throw it in the bin. I am talking one of those adolescent messes, a mix of beans and PVA glue, scattered all over your carpet, trodden into the fabric repeatedly and then somehow heated up into a solid, disgusting mass. Human beings are that mass. Bovona wants you and your family hiding in a bin or worse.
The good news is that there are people out there, much smarter people, who are desperately trying to find a cure to this madness. There is one somewhere and they will find it. Like a some cache of Cadbury’s Creme Eggs hidden under a nut bush, these men and woman, these scientists of the modern era, will sniff out these eggs and distribute them amongst the population. When we finally get our eggs there will be great rejoicing and celebration. I personally will be setting aside at least three weeks to sit in a tree and marvel at the outside world. I may have to grow feathers and adopt the mannerisms of an owl, possibly have myself adopted into an owl or owl-like family, in order to survive and I will do. We will all survive. Myself and my owls will ensure it.
So the question remains: what should we do with the rest of 2020? Should we give it a little more time, like the great one-eyed songstress Gabrielle, and hope that the Summer, Autumn and Winter months redeem it? Should we remain patient in the face of adversity? Or, as I would recommend, should we bin the rest of the year, go into suspended animation and all wake up in 2021 to start afresh? Given that all manner of festivals, gigs and other events have been postponed indefinitely until further notice we could have a slew of everything at the same time. We could gorge on tasty morsels of this and that. Perhaps the whole world should take a week off and indulge like chubby beavers trapped in an Oak Furniture Land, in a relentless barrage of hedonistic behaviour and uncompromising lust. How fruity.
I have spoken. We shall prevail.
We need three and, thank Bobby Costanzo, we are three.
Are you a fan of Our Cheryl? I have to admit I didn’t know much about her before 3 Words, her debut solo album from 2009, plopped onto my doormat in a padded envelope. Cheryl Cole (previously Cheryl Tweedy, now Cheryl Fernandez-Versini, future changes of surname TBC) started out in Girls Aloud, a band created by the ITV series “Popstars”. She then went solo and is now an X Factor judge.
You will never believe what just happened to me! The short version is that I am currently being paid to not work. I am at home right now not working. If I try to work I will be shouted at profusely so I am sat not working on a beanbag listening to the radio.
The year 2020 has been a strange one so far and it continues to get weirder the more we slide through it. The outside world is still there, I can see it, through the big windows in the living room, and it looks fantastic. I reckon that for the moment I am going to stay here and admire it from afar. Besides, it looks a little chilly and I’ve got this patch of dry skin on my hands that the low temperature will not do any favours for.
I have decided to try and do one drawing, sketch or doodle a day for something to look forward to and possibly upload on Twitter (the Book of Faces does not deserve my “talents”) for the world to admire. I hope to have a wall of my efforts with which I can look back on and laugh slobbily, possibly sell to some passing rich aristocrat (they’re always using the footpaths round here) and then retire to the country, doing the same thing I’m doing now, but with a little more style, panache and some hot ladies in a hot tub serving hot drinks.
In these trying times, we’re all hearing more than enough that worries, frightens or discombobulates us. To ease your worries, calm your nerves and recombobulate your addled mind, I’ve decided to make a regular habit of posting good news.
Here’s the first hit of happy headlines. Strap in.
I was in Greggs this morning to get some breakfast, having spent the night away from home. After I placed my order, the barista (being from London I assume the people behind the counter are baristas, like in Cafe Nero) asked me “do you like gingerbread?”
That’s not a difficult question. “I do”, I replied.
He put a gingerbread man in a little bag and put it on the counter with my order. “Here you go,” he said. “That’s free.”
When I asked about this gingerbread generosity, he explained that head office had – for no reason he could see – sent him about 200 extra gingerbread men and he’d never be able to sell them all. So he was just handing them out to anyone who wanted one.
Admittedly my free gingerbread man has distressingly fat legs, and has been given icing and smarties in a particularly slapdash way, almost as though the person adding his buttons had 200 of them to do and thought they might all end up in the bin, but all in all this is an absolute win. Hurrah!
Now, given the choice, Chris has decided that he is Middlesbrough. Recent aerial photography can confirm this:
His cheery, cheeky face can now be seen by anyone flying over the Tyne Tees area. It is sure to bring more tourists up to this part of the world than the Sunderland Airshow and the Wetwang Scarecrow Festival combined.
Now it only remains for Kev to decide what part of the United Kingdom he will turn into.
As the weather slightly improves in the British Isles, with varying degrees of success, so I am more inclined to leave the warm confines of the office and stretch my legs in the outside world. It’s a bit of a shocker at the moment. If people aren’t panic-buying soap and toilet paper they’re worriedly moving along the street, covering their mouths and greeting everyone with the level of suspicion they would normally reserve for an old man in a trenchcoat.
I remain a flurry of activity in myself and have no concern about these matters for the moment. All I care about is what I’m putting in my mouth (and also how it affects the shares of Greggs, what with the dip of people decreasing the amount of wares sold during the breakfast and lunch period, of course).
With my recent increase in eyes I can now see more than I ever have done before and you will not believe what I came across the other day. There is a house near to the office with the most unusual of… how to describe, well take a look yourself:
At first I walked past, had to stop, turn around and go back to see if I had actually seen what I had seen.
Are they the tops of baby bottles? Are they nipples? Are they sand castles The colour doesn’t even try to match the brickwork underneath. They stand out an absolute mile. What on earth was the designer going through to concoct such a bizarre structure?
The good news is that the property is on the market so if you’re looking for a beautiful four bedroom detached house with luxurious stone boobs to greet you as you come home every evening then this is the house for you!