I do tend to get all my news from The Chris Evans Breakfast Show on Virgin Radio in the morning ( 6.30am-9am ) Well, I say all of my news, but what I mean is as much news as I can bear to listen to without getting bored out of my mind. ( On the subject of boredom, upon which my grandson , Sam , seems to have become an expert ) I do have a tip for those of you turning to food as a substitute for entertainment , affix a sign to the door of your fridge which says, “ Not really hungry, just bored. “ It’s an appetite killer.
The news on Chris Evans is a sixty second slot on the hour read by an Irish lady whose accent is so strong that I can’t understand a word she is saying which suite me just fine. I’ve long subscribed to the theory that a news-free home is a happy home. When we first moved into our Cotswolds village there was only the post office which doubled as the village shop. It didn’t sell newspapers and the guy who ran it used to proudly proclaim that there was no news in the village. My kind of place and speaking of villages Ambridge in The Archers (foreign readers check it out on line via the podcast…. It will take you about a week to catch up with seventy years of plot-lines ) is still totally free of The Big V.
I hear they are stoning second-homers in Devon, Cornwall and Norfolk, refusing to sell them alcohol at off-licences at other rural coastal and rural places without proof of ID ( not as to age but what address is shown on their driving licences ) I was in the States last year and went to a supermarket and bought a couple of those cans of instant cocktails. The check-out girl asked me for ID. I laughed. She didn’t. I told her I was old enough to be her grandfather. She said that I wasn’t and anyway she already had two grandfathers. I wanted the drink so I decided to play along with her and produced my English driving licence. She took it, looked at it as if it had been issued on the planet Zog and then painstakingly tried to type in the details into her little computer. She failed, “ Don’t you have an ID card? “ she asked. “ we don’t have them in the UK. I replied, we’re a democracy. “ Bit harsh I know, but they had just elected Trump. She called a supervisor who on seeing the agitated, yet fascinated line at check-out, bent the rules and let me buy the cans.
That’s the thing with the States, They seem to speak the same language, but they don’t. Poor little Wanda the dog is discovering that. She was born and bred in America and has only lived here for about a week. She is focusing on walking on the left hand side of the road and keeping to the pavement rather than the side-walk. I have no idea what she will make of the boot of a car. She might try to eat it. I’ve seen dogs with shoes and boots before.
I just can’t think of America without thinking of that idiot Trump. A friend messaged me from California asking what I would do if Trump were my President. Shoot myself, or him I replied. ( Reminds me I’ve got tickets in October for Chichester to see “ Assassins “ the great musical with Stephen Sondheim all about those worthy heroes who have tried or actually succeeded in bumping off American Presidents. Just hope the theatre is open by then. )
Other American friends have said it’s liking living in a cross between a war zone and a third world country ( they are quite often the same thing of course ) And they are all unanimous in their condemnation of Trump. I mean what kind of leader tries to divert away from his own ineptitude by saying that the World Health Organisation is too “ Chino-centric …. Another word from the very Concise Trump Dictionary ( have you noticed how few adjectives he actually uses or even knows? ) And then threatens to cut off his payments to them. I suppose he does need every cent as the purchase price for our own NHS has gone up dramatically.
Look what they did for BoJo. I, for one am delighted that he has survived and is recovering. Though I think he might have strung out his time in hospital a bit. Mind you, if I were him I would also have thrown a ‘ sickie’ to get out of going back to work. Number 10 isn’t the easiest environment at the moment. Can you imagine him getting his awful dad to write out a sick note ? ( I used to forge notes from my dad to get out of swimming at school. I hated it then and hate it now. I mean who wants to share a bath with a bunch of total strangers. That’s probably why I still can’t swim and take away one pair of swimming trunks with me on every holiday, never unpack them and bring them back in pristine condition all ready for my next holiday. My friend Colin can’t swim either. Something about our school I guess when the master in charge used to push our heads under the water and my dad was a barber as you know and I had a fancy hair-style in those days of yore )
And then what would BoJo do with the sick note? Call her Majesty before ten in the morning and tell her he won’t be in today? And how long is it before he’s on a written warning and then Statutory Sick Pay ( yes, American readers this truly is a land flowing with the milk and honey of Social Benefits…. I bet you wish that you had voted for Obama and his Universal Health programme or voted Hilary in to achieve just that. At least our Big V victims get admitted to hospital without have to produce a credit card. Which would probably be taken, fully cleansed of any potential virus and then put through a machine by which time it would be too late although the deceased would already have been charged )
It’s interesting that none of the media or the population call Boris “ Prime Minister “ or “ Mr Johnson “ or even just “ PM “ I really think we’ve grown to love him and if there were an election today he would have a landslide victory. I’m so relieved that the country is being run again ( I think ) by somebody I’ve actually heard of, know what he looks like and whose name I can spell. That is, as long as Queenie doesn’t furlough him and we’re stuck wit the other random bloke. Was it Dominic or Dominick ? Rab or Raab ? Was he ginger, blonde, brunette or even bald? Tall, short, fat. slim? I doubt we are ever going to know now as he will slip back into obscurity. We never got to call him “ Dom, “ or Rabbi “ or any other term of affection like Boris. I mean nobody calls Trump, “ Don “ or even “ Donald “ even if he does call himself “ The Donald” as it sounds as if he is a chieftain of a Scottish clan.. and he probably thinks he is. Mind you, nobody calls Putin, “ Vlad “ either or if they do they are on their way to some distant Gulag before you can say “ Impaler “ Just showing off my historical awareness, there.
I gather that Corbyn has been replaced by a bloke called Kier Starmer. ( yes, I don’t believe that’s his real name either ) Mind you anybody would be better than Jezza from Mickey Mouse through to Joe Stalin …. I was going to say Donald Trump but I just stopped short. Now, if Kier wants to be as loved as Boris he needs to get himself out and about, catch The Big V, recover, praise the NHS, get interviewed alongside some pretty nurses ( preferably with a Jewish one amongst them ) and then he might have a chance of being a credible Leader of the Opposition.
I’ve just demonstrated more political and World governance knowledge than I thought I possessed so back to the real world ( at least for me ) and Chris Evans.
He was talking this morning about virtual speed dating, leading to a virtual date and then wondered if there could eventually be virtual marriages. I suppose given that one in two marriages nowadays end in divorce we’ve very little to lose though the birth rate and the population growth may slow down a tad. Then my wife spoiled the whole illusion by asking who would do the virtual ironing, and washing and cooking ? Good points I suppose, so Chris, the concept needs a little more thought and development. I had intimated to her that I might make a soup for Passover today ( no idea why although some sixty plus years ago I seem to recall doing just that with my mother in attendance looking on admiringly… but then she wasn’t the best of cooks herself as she tended to work from memory rather than recipes) However, my wife got up early and beat me to the punch soup-wise leaving me with a virtual contribution. I mean, the thought was there, it really was.
Anyway, the day beckons. I seem to be spending more time on the daily Blog than my new novel mainly because the novel needs an enormous amount of research and all authors (except for that annoying Hilary Mantel woman…. Up to page 500 by the way ) steer clear of that if they can.
Have a good Easter Monday. I was supposed to be at The Hive today watching Barnet play Wrexham my diary tells me. Remember diaries? They used to tell us what the day held in store . Now, we pretty much know, don’t we? What is that line from Shakespeare. “ And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day. “ I won’t finish the quote. It’s too depressing. And I don’t do depressing which is the best reason ever for not watching the news!
See you all tomorrow if we are spared.