A National Day of Reflection

I’ve not been reading the news or Twitter or any of that shit, so it came as a surprise to me to get an email at work telling me we’re having a National Day of Reflection to mark one year since the first covid lockdown.

So reflect I shall.

I shall reflect on a year that has been spent saving the NHS, so that fat nurses in empty hospitals can film themselves dancing like animated farm animals and post it on the internet. I shall reflect on the millions who have had life-saving NHS treatments cancelled or indefinitely postponed and I reflect on their abject despair, fear and bewilderment at a nasty cold being deemed more serious than their cancer.

I’ll reflect on the elderly who have died alone in care homes, denied the comfort of their family being at their sides. And on the covid carriers who were sent to the ill-prepared care homes by the NHS.

On the funerals whose normal progress has been curtailed and interrupted by novel protocols as an etiquette built over hundreds of years was cast aside in favour of a blank slate which, like any unoccupied ground, is prone to ugly, spiky weeds who will raise a bony finger and say “Actually, due to covid, you cannot be allowed to do that.”

On the sweeping totalitarian powers granted to the state, by itself, to newly determine where you can go, what you can do, which members of your own family you can sit in a room with. To override each adult’s own perception and determination of risk and their appetite or otherwise to take the risk on.

On the power to disregard all if this your cause happens to be trees or black people.

On the unprecedented campaign of psychological warfare that has been waged by the state on the people. On the compliant media who are now de facto state owned as the private sector slashed its advertising spend and the government has stepped in with a huge budget for ‘public service messages’. On the fear-mongering advertising campaigns. Look her in the eye. But not if she’s a 20-something woman with blue hair,  because that’s probably creepy and you’ll end up in the stocks. I digress.

On the supression of information about promising and inexpensive treatments and preventions. On the conflicts of interest, such as Patrick Vallance’s propects of personal gain from uptake of vaccines.

On the economic tsunami that is still over the horizon, but is inexorably heading for the shore.

On the official narrative that has twisted and turned as if no-one remembers that what was said last week is in complete contradiction to today’s absolute and irrevocable proclamations.

On the hundreds of billions of pounds that have been magicked out of thin air, thrown around like confetti, and quietly added to your tab. Even if you didn’t get any of the magic money.

On the economic and political power that has been ripped away from the common man, the small business and the local area, and taken into the hands of oligarchs and ‘public health experts’.

On the fact that the ‘vaccine’ ‘miracle’ that we’ve seen over the last year can absolutely only mean either that these vaccines have not been properly tested, trialled, scrutinised and regulated OR that for years people have suffered while waiting for new treatments to be approved when there was clearly no need for every innovation to spend 5 years in regulatory hell.

On the notion the Marie Curie Society – “Care and Support Through Terminal Illness” – which has organised this epic trolling event is either rubbing its hands together with glee at all the terminal illness customers it now has in its pipeline OR has manifestly failed to hold the government to account for all of the non-covid terminal illnesses it has caused this year. That this is another cynical PR exercise to paper over all that unpleasant failure and remind us all that they are angels who need our money to continue their ‘good works’.

On the revelation that if the ‘stiff upper lip’ ever was a thing, it certainly isn’t now. Wearing a mask in the street, in the field, on the moors. Wearing two masks, three masks, four masks, more. On the emergent instinct that it’s more dangerous to pass another person on the pavement than to jump into the road to avoid them.

On the division, distrust and contempt that has been sown throughout families and society; all at best a byproduct and at worst as the intended outcome of all the gaslighting that has gone on.

On the prescience and now redundancy of a hundred dystopian novels.

On the fact that the whole country has been shutdown and locked up to protect fat people and those whose time is up anyway.

On the start of all this, one year ago, when Boris Johnson appeared on the telly and said “Three weeks to squash the sombrero, eh chaps? It’ll be a jolly jape, so lets all just build a blanket fort and hunker down, then at the end nanny will serve jelly and ice cream for tea.” Meanwhile he was pushing emergency legislation through parliament that gave him and his shaved chimps total carte blanche to enact any and every hare-brained scheme from every inferior egotistical non-entity with the balls to step up.

On the final and irrevocable proof that most people are fucking stupid and/or fucking evil, and we are living in a Retarded Dystopia.

But I’ll leave you with one final and uplifting reflection: In 2012, we all laughed and pointed and shrieked when Diane Abbott tweeted “White people love playing divide and rule”. We’re not laughing now, are we?


Or, to put it another way:


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