With COVID-19 seemingly reluctant to relinquish it’s unyielding grip, UK prime minister Boris Johnson’s just spent a third night in the ICU department of a London hospital. Downing Street spokespersons have confided Mr Johnson’s condition is improving and remain quietly confident it’ll not be too long before he’s fit enough to leave the intensive care unit.

His return to a ward with other patients affording him an opportunity to embark on escapades with Jim Dale, along with the spirits of Sid James and Bernard Bresslaw. Their bawdy behaviour, including employing guffawing ‘mucky’ laughs; along with removal of TV subtitles, denying hard of hearing fellow patient Arthur Clack the pleasure of viewing favourite show ‘Bargain Hunt’.

The levity I’ve employed in the above paragraph is in no way meant disrespectfully to our currently stricken PM. Even though my political ideology doesn’t mirror his, I wish the fella a speedy recovery.

I also hope when this coronavirus malarky abates, his party afford the National Health Service the respect and support they deserve. Goodwill to the NHS not traditionally present within Tory Party DNA.

Witnessing Mr Johnson’s personal plight, reaffirms the magnitude of subplot that’s been added to the already extraordinary storyline being played out under a COVID-19 sky.

As if these circumstances weren’t surreal enough, the story’s author feeling moved to incorporate scenes where a world leader succumbs to contracting this indiscriminate pathogen…… It currently feels like Hollywood are having several years worth of drama material written for them.

As I witness the unprecedented global starkness broadcasting into my abode via a multitude of media channels, it’s mind blowing to see every country being paralysed by lockdowns and social distancing edicts.

With the exception of those in the employ of health care, companies involved in the provision of foodstuffs and other essential products, not forgetting emergency services, the UK is seemingly in hibernation.


Like Fred the 1970’s Blue Peter tortoise, it feels like I’ve been shoved in a cardboard box with old newspapers, straw and a few cabbage leaves. Before the lid was sealed and I was unceremoniously shoved into a cupboard until it was safe to re-materialise…….. Thankfully though, unlike Freddie boy, I don’t have the ignominy of having my name painted over my back in white gloss.

Consequential of a chillier breeze, West Yorkshire temperatures feel a degree or two colder today. The sporadic presence of solar rays pleasant, however the sun definitely bears less brio than exhibited yesterday.

Apparently, the UK governmental COBRA committee are meeting this afternoon to formulate their strategy to further counter a mongoose going by the name of COVID-19. Amongst those discussions is whether to extend the three week old public lockdown to protect the NHS. Personally, I’d be utterly amazed if they jeopardise the gains they’ve thus far achieved at this juncture by recklessly opening the asylum doors.

Incidentally, while this coronavirus tapestry is woven afore us, I plan to start undertaking social distancing compliant haircuts, after securing the blue print rights to Caratacus Potts’ haircutting machine…. Could you form an orderly queue, please!