From David Maughan Brown in York: Roosting chickens

October 14th

Flocks of chickens are coming home to roost on our Prime Minister, the supposedly Honourable Member for Uxbridge and South Ruislip, and it isn’t just the odd stray feather they are contributing to his general air of lazy dishevelment.  When the great moment came on Monday for the unveiling the new Covid-19 tiered lockdown system that had been trailed so extensively for the better part of the previous week, Boris Johnson’s Chief Medical Officer, standing a socially distanced few feet beside him, calmly asserted that he had no confidence that it would work.  Immediately after the news conference, the Scientific Advisory Council for Emergencies (SAGE) released the minutes of a meeting it had held on 21st September at which the Government’s own hand-picked scientists unequivocally advocated a short, sharp, ‘circuit-breaker’ lockdown as the only way to get the rapidly escalating incidence of infections under control. Boris Johnson rejected their advice and implemented his Rule of Six and the 10pm curfew on restaurants and bars instead, thereby comprehensively demolishing any last remnants of his endlessly repeated claim to have been ‘following the science.’  He can no longer get away with blaming the scientists.

The latest figures show that very nearly 20,000 people were diagnosed as Covid-19 positive in UK yesterday.  There has been an exponential increase in the number of infections, hospitalisations and deaths in the weeks since Boris and his lackeys took that September decision, and we are headed within the next two weeks to equal the March and April numbers in intensive care and we haven’t hit winter yet.  The trailing of the severe Tier 3 restrictions in Liverpool five days in advance inevitably resulted in the predicted partying in the streets on Tuesday night in anticipation of the midnight implementation of the new rules.  The almost unbelievable stupidity of that crowd differed only from the stupidity of the similarly maskless crowd that flocked to Donald Trump’s recent election rally in Florida in that, whereas the stupidity in Florida was suicidal given the age-profile of that crowd, in Liverpool the sozzled revellers appeared to consist largely of young people who probably won’t die themselves but will inevitably be passing the virus on to their elders, some of whom most certainly will die.  The measures brought in by Boris on 21st September as an alternative to the lockdown simply haven’t worked, and there is no reason whatever to imagine that his new Tier system will work either.   The number of infections in York, currently in tier 1, has increased by almost 50% in the past 24 hours.

If the current exponential growth in infections and deaths is stripping the Emperor of whatever clothes he had left, the wedges Johnson’s incompetence has succeeded in driving between the different nations of the supposedly United Kingdom will soon be making his unsightly nakedness even more glaringly apparent.  Northern Ireland has decided to implement the national lockdown Boris is refusing to agree to.  In two weeks time it will be possible to compare the results of the two different approaches to the crisis.  In the meantime the government of Wales has felt obliged to take the extraordinary step of trying to protect the public health of its citizens by banning cars from the North West of England.  Scotland, one gathers, is contemplating taking similar measures.  So some parts of the UK are, indeed, taking control of their borders – but, again, not in the way Boris anticipated.

The flocks of chickens do not cluck in unison.  Johnson is caught between several competing factions.  One flock consist of the supposedly ‘libertarian’, Tory backbenchers who oppose any kind of lockdown on the basis of the damage it does to the economy.   Closer inspection would probably reveal that that group really doesn’t care how many plebs in ‘the North’ die, just as long as their own shares in in the Wetherspoons pub chain don’t take too much of a hit.  That group would be better described as braying rather than clucking.  Another group, including extra-parliamentary experts, is warning the government about the destitution that will result if a lockdown is implemented without adequate support for those whose incomes will suffer: parents won’t be able to buy shoes for their children; women will have to prostitute themselves to keep food on their children’s plates.  The official opposition is demanding a national lockdown along the lines of SAGE’s September recommendations.  The Mayor of Greater Manchester, Andy Burnham, is still threatening to bring legal action against the government and refusing to cooperate if restrictions in his area of responsibility are raised to Tier 3 without adequate financial support being put in place

If the variously suicidal or homicidal crowds of revellers and Trump devotees can be fairly described as stupid, their idiocy does not begin to compare with Johnson’s stupidity as he steadfastly lumbers towards a ‘no deal’ Brexit in 10 weeks time, apparently intent on making sure that the worst crisis in UK since World War II gets a whole lot more catastrophic for everybody involved.   And ‘everybody’ includes the entire continent of Europe, even if it will be vastly more catastrophic for us in the still ‘United Kingdom’. Having opportunistically lied and cheated his way into the position from which he can do greatest damage to the country he is supposed to be leading, Johnson fully deserves everything the roosting chickens can dump on him.   If I sound close to despair, it is because I am.

From David Maughan Brown in York: The Crown and Cushion

September 21st

It has been an exquisite early autumn day: perfectly cloudless; the temperature in the low twenties (Centigrade); a light wind, with just the faintest edge of a hint that we had better make the most of the sun as it will not be anywhere near as welcoming for much longer.  Probably not beyond tomorrow, in fact, as another cold front is due to arrive on Wednesday.  Definitely a day to be celebrated by an escape into the North Yorkshire countryside, particularly as the cold front seems likely to arrive in the unwelcome company of another tightening of the lockdown screw.  Our Chief Medical Officer and Chief Scientific Adviser were due to perform a pas de deux in Downing Street, warning us about the exponential rise in Covid-19 infections, this time without the encumbrance of our scruffily inept Prime Minister but, even so, well worth avoiding. This can only mean that the latter is, once again, taking pre-emptive precautions to ensure that someone else can be blamed for what is about to go wrong

But why worry about that on such a beautiful day?  So we head for The Crown and Cushion at Welburn, near Castle Howard, an ‘award-winning’ pub where we can book an outside table, a scenic and leisurely 40 minute drive from our house. Provided, that is, one can avoid the perpetually coagulating stream of traffic along the A64 ‘main road’ by going through Strensall, Sheriff Hutton, and Bulmer.  But we are turned back by a pair of police people on the main street in Strensall, which is swarming with police cars and ambulances responding to an accident of some sort, and we have to go across Strensall common – feeling relieved that the military operations that prominent notices are warning us about appear not to be taking place – and join the A64 after all.  It occurs to me that the army may well be somewhere in the city being trained on how to police the lockdown, a possibility currently being leaked to the media.   As we drive, I find myself wondering aloud, as I probably do every year, what it is that determines the order in which the trees decide that it is time for their leaves to ‘turn’ and take on their autumn colours – horse-chestnuts first, then oaks, and so on.  The trees, once again, don’t divulge their secret.

The pub lunch lived up to its ‘award-winning’ standing in suitably leisurely fashion.  Leisurely for those doing the eating and drinking, that is; anything but leisurely for the three members of staff doing the serving.   The pub’s already extensive outdoor seating area has been extended further by cannibalising the corner of the car-park nearest to the back door.  For lunch-time on a Monday, with the weather as perfect as it was, there was no shortage of customers, most of whom appeared, like us, to be retired.   It was a good fifty yards from the back door to the furthest occupied table and I commented to the member of staff who was serving us that she must be keeping very fit.  She told me that last Friday her Fitbit had recorded more than 20,000 steps between the kitchen, bar and tables.   After traditional pub fare of beer-battered fish with chunky chips and mushy peas, for me, and steak and ale pie for Susan, we were intrigued by the names of the (inevitably ‘award-winning’) cheeses on the cheese-board – Stottie Goat’s cheese, Swaledale, The Duke of Wellington, Ewe Beauty, and Flatcapper Northern Brie – and decided that (with the possible exception of the worthy Duke) they would be more appropriate to a Yorkshire pub lunch than our usual ‘affogatos’, which were also on the menu.  

The lunch was excellent, the release from the endless news about our increasingly dysfunctional Test and Trace system was almost palpable, and I only found myself on one brief occasion wondering fleetingly how many of our fellow customers – only two of whom I saw wearing the face-masks we dutifully put on when we went into the building – would still be with us by next Spring if the dire warnings about the second spike are proved accurate.  When it came to paying the bill, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that The Crown and Cushion has extended its ‘Eat Out to Help Out’ £10 discount per person, scheduled to end at the end of August, all the way through September.  It seemed the least I could do to split the unexpected windfall with the staff by way of a compensation for the wear and tear on their footwear.