meIf the UK can draw anything positive from the Covid-19 crisis, it is that the most powerful and virulent version of the virus is perceived globally as British, faster and stronger than its insignificant foreign counterparts. And Education Secretary Gavin Williamson has rightly stated that this is the kind of thing that makes our island nation “a much better country than all the rest.” Up yours Delors! Take back control !!
Due to the holiday crashes, I had to submit this “so-called” “funny news column” six days ago, although this week I’m not as stressed out as Boris Johnson’s anal sphincter. In fact, there were a limited number of times the prime minister was able to blame the dog Dilyn before Carrie Symonds, the power behind the porcelain throne, realized that insider knowledge had made her father’s guts turn. shudder. Dover’s stranded shippers must envy Johnson’s never-ending stream of just-in-time perishables deliveries.
Last week my area went to level 4, a new level that was not even on the government website the day it was announced. Much like the notion of an ‘Australian-style Brexit’, Level 4 is a new language aimed at hiding how bad things really are by using nonsensical words. “The virus is out of control,” admitted Matt Handcock, the crying piñata, on Sky News, looking like a supporting actor in Chernobyl who realized that the reactor was going to explode. Suddenly we were cut off from Europe and much of our usual food supply, a situation that was voted for by millions of people who knew why they were voting in 2016, so they were delighted.
Suddenly, Europa, once in need, seemed eager to let us go, a teenager turning away from kissing someone with a worm-infested cold sore. On Sky News, titled Pairing middle-class couples with equal children in matching JoJo Maman Bébé jackets they justified their right to evacuate the level 4 zone and kill the weak through a Waitrose buyer’s interpretation of manifest destiny. Interns in their twenties fled home in search of their mothers’ mince pies, filling trains full of death spores, while the entire online Covid map east of Dalston Junction turned the color of red Martian grass in War of words.
By the time you read this, they may be warming themselves around burning containers in the ruins of Victorian Gothic power plants, roasting tasty retirees on rotisseries made from dismantled 5G masts and speaking a new form of English based on rhyming jargons and half remembered Lyrics from Smiley Culture. Britain, or more specifically the south of England, has somehow managed to put on the platform the twin plagues of the current Conservative Party front bench, and also a new and more virulent strain of the already terrifying Covid-19 catastrophe. .
Like John Carpenter’s beautiful space virus The thing, or Jacob Rees-Mogg, the bespoke Kentish Covid-19 strain sees us as expendable host bodies on its way to full spectrum dominance. In the southeast, it has morphed into a faster variant, perhaps because it’s eager to get out of Kent, which is now made up entirely of bewildered Brexit voters in dissonant cognitive denial, huge truck parks belching death, and Laymen strewn with abandoned two-liter Coca-Cola bottles filled with hot Covid-19 flavored urine from truckers. In fact, the watery deposits made by thousands of tannin-fed truckers along the A2 have already made Kent uninhabitable for generations to all humans except Iain Duncan Smith.
Our English Covid is a global virus, showing the buccaneer spirit, loved by buccaneer Liam Fox, who saw us conquer the world, invent television and the telephone, and win two world wars singlehandedly. Our unstoppable British strain Covid shows that yes, we can thrive mightily outside the EU. Although I don’t necessarily think of him as a friend, I view the strain with fearful respect and trembling admiration, as I do with sharks, black holes, and the late Mark E Smith of the Fall.
In the meantime, I’m trying to rewrite the thematic half of my repeatedly rescheduled 2020 tour schedule. But will anyone remember Tony Parsons next year, let alone be interested in a 20-minute routine outlining the various ways I envision the epicurean Brexiter could manage the storage and dispersal of cess? I suspect not. Yet something I wrote about attitudes toward immigration eight years ago seems to have endured. Surgically sampled in a registry, Comin ‘Over Here by Asian Dub Foundation, and described by my nine-year-old son as the only thing I’ve ever been involved in that isn’t horrible. If you download it, and maybe all the remixes too, before New Year’s Eve it could be Brexit day number one, benefits for Kent Refugee Action Group. And remember, the migrants crossing the canal can help us get through this if they can bring basic food with them.
Appearing in what the Internet assures me is a “tapping” is a strange experience for a 52-year-old man who has been misled. Asian Dub Foundation filmed a video in the gap between the first two locks, which social historians already call the Boris Johnson Perineum. I imitated a 1,000-year-old Anglo-Saxon poem in the original Anglo-Saxon and felt like Alan Bennett at the helm of Public Enemy. Between takes in an empty warehouse in Bermondsey, the quartet improvised a flute reading of John Coltrane’s arrangement of My Favorite Things, a rare moment of pure beauty in a time of scarcity, a privileged private performance when most stages are on. silence. I will never forget. What did you do in the Covid wars, dad? People who imitated Anglo-Saxon poetry and swore in empty warehouses. They were the real heroes. Happy New Year.
Asian Dub Foundation’s Comin ‘Over Here (with Stewart Lee) is available to download, for New Years Eve, please, for slot # 1 on Brexit Day, here: smarturl.it/cominoverhere
Digsmak is a news publisher with over 12 years of reporting experiance; and have published in many industry leading publications and news sites.