Alright, alright, al-fucking-right.
DC broke the rules. I’m not gonna back him, the tosser. I just think: what’s done is done. Ya know? What Bozza should be doing, really, is fining the cunt. What’s the maximum penalty for breaking lockdown? Seventy quid? A grand? I don’t know because, like most, I’ve not been fined during lockdown (side note: I have been fined in the past for not wearing my seatbelt, driving through a bus lane, and peeing in public). But Imagine if you got caught by a police officer whilst trekking to your ma’s place for a cheap meal, or your mates’ place for a quick beer, or your friend-with-benefit’s place for a cheeky fuck. If PCSO Imaprick from Buttfuck PD caught you in the act and got you fired from your job, you’d be pissed, wouldn’t you? You’d feel wrong-done to. Why then, should we take Cumming’s job away if all we want to be is treated the same? Fine the bellend and be done with it. (Not that a fine would affect DC much, I don’t expect. Travelling to his second home! Most of the country can’t afford their first home, never mind a bloody holiday home.) Still, equality and all that . . .
Bozza clearly believes that DC is an imperative part of this country’s destruction. And whilst I don’t like or trust any of the current bunch of cuntservatives, I don’t believe I ever will either, regardless of who’s in power. Jesus Christ himself could be the next PM but as soon as he dons the badge, the tie, the jacket, the podium at number 10, he is naturally a liar and a cheat. He’s also likely a rapist and a paedo. I am not a politician, so I will refrain from any political debate. I just hear the cries of equality yelped by the deluded, misinformed, uneducated public and the desire to write a bad-mouthed blog flows through me, bubbling in my blood like boiling lemonade until it’s documented down in this poor excuse for a piece of writing.
It’s been ten weeks, man. Ten weeks and I’m dreaming of just fucking lockdown off. I wish that my parents had gotten to witness my one-year-old’s speech grow and evolve. Whenever I video call them I see the pain and literal heartache in their faces, knowing that they’re missing precious moments of their beloved grandchildren’s development. This morning, my youngest crawled onto my lap, stared deeply into my eyes and said to me, stuttered and jibberish as it was: ‘Daddy, I want gas.’ Then she said, Daddyyyyyy . . . Amaboob.’ She’s a little genius, man. Knowing that my mum and dad and the in-laws are missing these moments is just as painful for me, believe me.
Still, we’ve had some good news. Larger groups can gather, BBQs can be had, mates can drink together, play golf and tennis. You can even use somebody else’s bog, if necessary. You can’t, however, tackle a football from another player, you can’t camp out in somebody’s garden, and my parents still can’t hug their grandchildren.
Whilst sat atop this rule-following, dictating-via-blog, high horse I find myself upon, I still remain well and truly skeptical about the whole thing. THE WHOLE THING! It all seems a bit fishy to me. And that’s my prerogative to feel that way, right? Though I won’t bore you with conspiracies . . .
Alas, I’m still following the rules and doing the atheistic version of praying that it will all soon end and grandparents world over can finally smoosh their grandkiddies into their embracing wrinkly bodies the way that only a loving grandparent can.
Until that time, fuck Dominic Cummings, fuck Boris Johnson, fuck complaining about something you have zero control over, and focus on the people you love. Because there are scarier things than Covid-19 out there.