Blood, sweat, tears and stupidity.

In this crisis I hope I may be pardoned if I do not address the readers of at any length today. I hope that any of my friends and colleagues, or former colleagues, who are affected by the ongoing social, political, economic, medical, sensual and light entertainment upheavals will make allowance, all allowance, for any lack of ceremony with which it has been necessary to act. I would say to you all, as I said to those who have joined this almighty clusterfuck of a reaction to a viral virus: I have nothing to offer but blood (of bat, ocelot and orang-utan), toil (from home, provided the 4G network stays consistent), tears (most likely on entering any random supermarket and realising the only things I can buy are a bent can of chickpeas, a bottle of bitter lemon and a garden trowel), and sweat (along with a high temperature and a persistent cough).


We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering and of arseholes telling us depressing crap on the news again and again and again. You ask, what is our policy? I can say: it is to wage war, by sea, land and air (but chiefly from our sofas and some ridiculous queue of bottled up anxiety outside Tesco’s), with all our might (which isn’t much, by the looks of things) and with all the strength that God can give us (incidentally, God, while you’re hanging around to answer our prayers, I would just like to ask at what point you though Covid 19 would be a good idea); to wage war against a monstrous stupidity, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy.


You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in three words: It is misery, confusion and shit. Misery, confusion and shit at all costs. Misery, confusion and shit in spite of all terror. Misery, confusion and shit, however long and hard the road may be; for without misery, confusion and shit, there is no survival. Let that be realised; no survival for the British Empire (so that’s The Cayman Islands fucked as well), no survival for all that the British Empire has stood for (which has been less than squat for most of the last half century), no survival for the urge and impulse of the ages (as in the urge and impulse to make sacks of money from manipulation and lies and exploitation and to choke and blacken the air and needlessly tech the crap out of everything and force length after length of bulging, veiny, insidious social media up everyone’s back passages) that mankind will move forward towards its goal of being the least worthy species in all of time to have such an astoundingly rich and beautiful planet wasted on.


But I take up my task with buoyancy and hope. I feel sure that our cause will not be suffered to fail among men (or women, or the transgenders, or indeed any other biological variations, such are the rich options we all have these days to bend and warp reality to suit our own desires). At this time I feel entitled to claim the aid of all, and I say – come then, let us go forward together with our united strength, the strength not of ten bears or of a joined up global political and humanitarian solution but by the most obvious route of wild panic and misinformation followed by shutting down everything; our borders, our airports, our supply chains, our schools and, of course, such fools as we are, our common fucking sense, a lack of which is worse than the worst virus I could ever imagine. Let’s rock.


W. Churchill (adapted by G B Hewitt. 19.03.2020)

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