It's a peculiar thing to walk around knowing that somewhere, out in the environment and wholly invisible, are floating proteins angry that you're alive.
The idea that nature wants you to suffer is...alarming. Some people, in a marketplace far away, twisted the world. Tore at the fabric of nature to allow something to get through. Now we're unwelcome guests in a genetic house. We better learn to behave ourselves. Take our shoes off at the door.
This is a reality we can't turn back from. The genie is out of the bottle and no genius is in charge.
Everyday the people in power fade a little more. At some point I fully expect them to just bolt halfway through a press conference.
"Look! An eagle!"
And then he just runs. Heads to the car. Heads to the coast, takes off all his clothes and runs into the sea to be consumed by dead grey waves. Blissful dissolution in Brexit waters as ego and body return to what pass for clean water. The primal circle is complete. Dinosaurs and evolution happily forgotten; written off as a bad idea or like a tax deductible. Like the petrol they will one day become. He is human petrol now.
Boris just stares at us with his tired dead eyes. He wishes he was somewhere else. We all do.
But there is nowhere else because this fucking disease seems to have travelled further around the world than it has any right to in lieu of a blue passport. Brexiteers ought to be annoyed but instead they are dazzled at the performative chaos melting around them. Like a Dali clock dripping over the White Cliffs of Dover.
Instead they are moaning on Twitter about how - somehow - it's still Jeremy Corbyn's fault. If only Dianne Abbot could count. If only Dawn Butler would stop embarrassing racists. If only a man who didn't get voted in three months ago somehow didn't have the power he doesn't have to influence decisions made by a man who did and does.
Imagine if he were in charge, they say, just imagine how bad it would be. I know right! People might be tested, the NHS might have funding, hope! We could buy toilet roll in peace. Andrex for all comrade!
Oh dear. It's all too much. I'm looking online at expensive butchers to see if they can locally deliver food in lieu of the regular supermarkets. Even at the he best of times they aren't reliable. You order minced beef and they bring you Arctic Roll instead. Well it's all food innit - and it's one of your five a day right?
It's come to this my friends. Housebound for four months if the government gets their way. I get to sit and watch summer and the virus roll by. Like the biblical epic by Cecil B Demille. The one with Charlton Heston (which? He's in ALL of them). Moses (that's the fella). Where everyone's sat in the house protected with Lamb's blood while the angel of death goes around killing the firstborn of Egypt. Happy days. No passover here; just a balding crank with a Mekon head whispering into the ear of a man too lazy to use the power he always wanted responsibly.
Not sure how it ends though, if it ever did.
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