Isolation XVII:The People Who Grinned Their Countries To Death.

"They smiled so much and waved their flags as she saluted to the military band. Most of the people failed to see she had a broken bottle in the other hand" - The People Who Grinned Themselves To Death, The Housemartins.

As the Covid-19 global death toll passes a quarter of a million (70,000+ in the US alone) and the UK overtakes Italy to take second place in the grim and getting grimmer still league table of death I find myself regularly despairing that there are people out there, even now, still making excuses for Boris Johnson and his government of charlatans. There are people, friend's parents, who will even go so far as to say him and his government are doing a great job.

It beggars belief. If a death toll nearing 30,000 (in a country that had the advantages of being, predominantly, an island and weeks of notice as to what was coming) can't change your mind on Johnson's Trumplike unsuitability for high, or indeed any, office then nothing will. You are, essentially, now a cult member and we all know that things don't tend to end well for cult members.

But while the brainwashed hordes wave flags, prepare to celebrate VE Day, and make excuse after excuse for the venality and uselessness of the British government it's not just them who are suffering. The people who grinned themselves to death are, also, grinning us to death, they're grinning the country to death, and they're grinning the world to death.

It's perhaps no surprise that some of us have turned our attentions inwards and, though my last blog on this subject focused squarely on the criminal negligence of the British administration at a time when we could least take it, in this chapter I've allowed myself to look inside my soul. To see how this may affect me in the long run. Both for good and bad.

I'm 51. It's not ancient but I know most of my best years are behind me. I've not got a wife, no kids, no grandkids, and I've got very little to look forward to except poor health and declining opportunities. Yet I feel aggrieved that Covid-19, exacerbated by the wanton negligence of my own government, has denied me many of the small pleasures I did have:- walking in the park with friends, going to the pub, swinging my friend's daughter round.

I can barely imagine how this must feel to younger people. Not being denied the small pleasures of life in your sixth decade but denied the life affirming bang of the b, the first chorus of a favourite song, the endless summers of youth so full of love and wonder. When you're young there is a power and a lust for life that races through the veins. You're free, you're horny, you're righteous, and you're unique. You are, at last, yourself.

To have a huge chunk of that taken away is tragic. For a government to make it even worse is both criminal and unforgivable. On the recent birth of Johnson's umpeenth, wiffle waffle piffle poffle, baby some cruel commentators suggested that Carrie Symonds must have had a hard life if she's really 32. Nasty - and sexist. Also untrue. She's not a bad looking lady. What's disgusting about her is that she's a repugnant moral vacuum who's happy to sell out her performative empathy in order to get knocked up by the biggest, most lying,  piece of shit in the whole country.

She's not the only one who can't see the blood on his hands. Boris fans (he's Boris to his fans but he should never be called that by anyone else, he's not your friend) think he's doing a great job and if the news and the death toll say otherwise it must be somebody else's fault. Like a beaten wife whose husband once bought her flowers excuses are made. He's under a lot of stress, he's no worse than anyone else, he'll change soon.

But Boris Johnson's not bringing you flowers anymore. He's bringing you death. Sunday 3rd May marked 12 yrs since Johnson became Mayor of London. It was a very sad day for me at the time, I'd never felt less proud to be a Londoner and I still remember which friends of mine voted for him (Paola, later a huge supporter of one Jeremy Corbyn, interpret that how you will). Johnson was, of course, a terrible Mayor who, to use one of his own favourite words, spaffed money up the wall on a never too happen and completely unwanted garden bridge, boasted about building an airport in the Thames (which also never happened), and cut money to fire services which, quite likely, caused the Grenfell disaster to take even more lives.

In London, now, he is mostly hated. As with Covid-19 the rest of the country should follow suit but some never will. Some have been so programmed by his Brexit death cult that it seems to me they would rather they, or their family, die than admit they've been taken in by the most lethal and dishonest snake oil salesman in modern British history. Worse still than the tens of thousands of deaths caused by Covid-19 is the idea that Johnson, Gove, Rees-Mogg, and Patel will be able to cling on to power and wreak even more damage on this country.

This must be stopped. We must fight against it wherever we find it. They are as big a threat as coronavirus itself in the short term and, in the long term, a more deadly one. The latest tactic among Johnson cult members to shift the blame from the government is to suggest other countries are lying about their death tolls. Which some possibly, probably, are. Liars exist everywhere. It doesn't excuse the fact that we have one of the very worst of them as Prime Minister.

Exceptionalist thinking supposes lying is something only foreign governments, and foreigners, do - and, again, it 'proves' how well Johnson and his toadies are handling this. We should never forget they are not - and we should never forgive either. Some crimes are too serious. Nero fiddles while Rome burns, Johnson wiffle waffles while British people die, Bolsonaro holds superspreading rallies while Brazilians die, and Trump cracks open another crate of Kool-Aid as Americans die. The people who grinned themselves to death were just following the leaders. If the leaders lead them to death with a smile on their faces then is that so bad?

If I sound consumed with anger that's partially true. For Trump, Johnson, and Bolsonaro and their followers I now have nothing left but anger. But, elsewhere, there is much to be positive about - and not just the new 'care' button on Facebook. Since my last but one blog on this I've chatted to Mum, Dad, Simon, Michelle and Evie, Jason, Carole, Ian, and Shep, I got a lovely postcard of Dartmoor through the post from Jack (she's not there now -obviously), I've learned the term Donald Ducking (attending online meetings with no trousers on), I've done another Kahoot quiz, I've enjoyed setting daily music 'challenges' and running down my 100 favourite reggae songs on Facebook, and I've been out on daily walks appreciating the beauty of nature and the kindness of my fellow Londoners.

Apart from the odd jogger and person who thinks wearing a face mask means they can walk within about six inches of you almost everybody is still observing social distancing and still smiling as they do so. On one of my walks, yesterday out to Hilly Fields with its commanding views south to the Crystal Palace tower and north to Canary Wharf, I heard the news that Dave Greenfield of The Stranglers had died (of Covid-19). His keyboard playing for that band was what made them stand apart from other punk bands but more than that his style was an influence on my friend Bugsy and the news came through on the anniversary of Bugsy's death. We even had The Stranglers' Walk On By on the playlist at his wake.

It reinforced to me how important friends are in life and how much I've missed my friends during these last 52 days of isolation and though mobile phones, video calls, social media, and Zoom have been great surrogates nothing compares with spending time in the presence of a genuine friend.

Six days ago, on a walk to the local CoOp I bumped into a guy I know called Matty. I don't even know Matty's surname but I occasionally chat to him in local pubs (or used to before all 'this') so I'd class him more as acquaintance than friend but it was still good to see him. We both agreed we were missing the pub and he told me he was keeping himself 'libated' (as am I) and that he'd started up an Instagram account in which he reviews cans. The beer inside them too I don't doubt.

Much better still, two days ago I arranged to meet Pam - a genuine and true friend of twenty years standing, in Belair Park, Dulwich Village. It was appropriate it was her I should meet because she was the last friend I saw before lockdown (when me, her, Shep, and Kathy walked the Capital Ring from Eltham to Streatham) and it gave a kind of strange symmetry to everything.

It was, of course, lovely to see her. We sat, walked, and chatted (always at least two metres apart) for two and a half hours and then headed our separate ways back home. It was weird not to be able to give her a hug goodbye and it was weirder still that we couldn't go to the pub but, as I walked slowly home, I reflected on what a tonic it had been and I'm still feeling better for that friendly, human, interaction now. If I'm to write of those who endanger life, those who are indifferent to it, and those whose irresponsibility has led to such a large loss of it then I must also write about those who enrich it, those who appreciate it, and those who make it worth living. I am fortunate that I can count my friends, most of my family, and even acquaintances like Matty in that group. There's some people out there need to ask themselves do they want to defend a death cult or do they want to enrich and improve the lives of those around. If they prefer the idea of a death cult it seems likely ISIS will be recruiting again soon.