AS unfortunate photo ops go, this was up there with Ed Miliband’s bacon sandwich and Theresa May “dancing”.
Ursula von der Leyen’s decision to sport a plaster featuring the EU flag on her freshly vaccinated arm was, quite rightly, widely derided.
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As one commentator keenly observed: “If that plaster has been supplied under an EU contract, it will probably fall off in another five minutes.”
Quite. Nothing symbolises better Europe’s handling of the pandemic than a Europlast: A flimsy bit of plastic covering a small prick.
After all, this is a woman who has spectacularly cocked up the European jab rollout — while attempting to sabotage ours. A woman who warned us that if we left the European Union we’d soon be scrabbling around in loincloths, grunting.
As latest stats show, we have recorded 57.49 vaccines per 100 people, compared to France’s 22.52 and Germany’s 22.97. Ursula appears to have adopted a revisionist view of history.
The European Commission president with the very nice haircut is the smiling assassin who says one thing while doing quite the opposite.
This week, when receiving her Covid-19 shot, she said — with absolutely no sense of irony: “The swifter we vaccinate, the sooner we can control the pandemic.”
She said this as she declared all-out jab warfare on the UK, trying to block shipments of the AstraZeneca vaccine to our shores — a move which made us all grateful to be out of this bureaucratic s***show.
Keen to get in on the Britain-bashing act, on Thursday, perfectly coiffured Canadian PM Justin Trudeau stepped away from his dressing table to announce WE are facing a “very serious” third wave. Which was news to the rest of us.
Not surprisingly, that was quickly rebuffed by No10. Not so long ago, we were dubbed “Plague Island” by the New York Times newspaper. Not any more. You see, nothing unites us quicker than being told we’re rubbish.
Up go our collective heckles, as do our (metaphorical) Union Flags. Finally, we are proud to be British. Right now, in the face of a relentless wave of attacks from all jealous, embittered corners of the globe, Britain is showing how great she really is.
With lockdown restrictions finally eased, we’ve been doing what we do best — getting gently hammered and queuing for hours to try on a polyester jumper from H&M.
Six months ago we were a shambles, stuttering in and out of lockdowns, R rates through the roof, seething at Boris and co, still bitterly divided over Brexit.
Today, with our Covid vaccine rollout programme the envy of the watching world, once-ardent Remainers are now cheering Brexiteers. Slowly, things are looking up.
And the more the rest of the world tries to knock us down, the more united they will make us.
Bounce Back Britain is here . . . and here to stay.
Take a hint, Katie
KUDOS to Mick Jagger. In a radio interview, the Rolling Stones legend admitted he’d abandoned attempts to write his memoirs because he found the process “dull and upsetting”.
Not only this but he’s given back the rumoured £1million advance to his publisher.
This from a man who’s partied with rock stars, dined with prime ministers and lost whole days to glorious misadventure. And let’s not forget his rumoured exploits with a Mars bar.
Meanwhile, Katie Price is currently writing her SEVENTH autobiography.
Rickety showbusiness ladder
IN the week tragic Big Brother star Nikki Grahame died, another BB export, Alison Hammond, is a happy reminder that reality TV ain’t all bad.
Almost 20 years on from her Channel 4 debut, the likeable Brummie stole the show on BBC1’s latest glossy Saturday-night show, I Can See Your Voice.
The programme – a South Korean import that successfully plagiarises every talent show of the past ten years – received mixed reviews upon its launch.
But it might well become cult viewing, thanks largely to Ms Hammond. For years she was utterly wasted in TV hinterland, dutifully clocking in as This Morning’s intrepid showbiz reporter.
Despite her hilarious interviews with Hollywood A-listers, bosses seemed reluctant to give her a promotion.
It shouldn’t have taken a concerted diversity drive from ITV to help land her a prime-time Friday presenting slot alongside Dermot O’Leary. But quite possibly it did.
I met her in Los Angeles a couple of years ago, over a return trip to a hotel breakfast buffet – we collided over some sausage, I think – and she’s as brilliant, warm and gregarious off-screen as she is on it. Her laugh is properly infectious.
It’s refreshing to see someone so genuine claw their way up the notoriously rickety showbusiness ladder.
Pillar of the community
OVER the past 15 years or so I’ve interviewed everyone from Madonna to the Beckhams – and endlessly wanged on to bored friends with various tales of celebrity derring-do.
Yet the ONLY story to ever get a reaction from those pals was the news Marks & Spencer is suing Aldi over its lookalike caterpillar cake.
After writing a heartfelt first-person piece about Colin, my one true love, my WhatsApp and social media were bombarded.
People are outraged by Aldi’s Cuthbert (except one bloke on Twitter who suggested my tribute was disrespectful to Prince Philip). Evidently the £7 caterpillar cake has a very vocal fanbase. Mess with Colin at your peril.
Spurs paint right
ARSENAL one, Spurs nil. While it pains me to say it, fair play to the Gooner clearly behind Dulux’s genius takedown of Tottenham this week.
After the brand proudly announced it was Spurs’ new official paint sponsor, an employee quickly went rogue, suggesting the company’s famous sheepdog would do a better job on the pitch than any of the current starting XI.
On current form, boss Jose Mourinho could do worse than giving him a runout.
Revels with a cause
AS uplifting pictures emerged of young people doing what young people do and getting p***ed, a small, miserable bunch predictably moaned.
“Soho tonight – about as sensible as swinging knives while blind-folded,” intoned one self-righteous muppet.
Instead of revelling in youngsters ploughing back months of lost revenue into our put-upon hospitality industry, people sought out the negatives.
These merry twentysomethings weren’t breaking any rules. They were layered up and gamely drinking al fresco pints with frost-bitten, white-tipped fingers.
These are the same twentysomethings who have arguably been hardest hit by the pandemic.
Unable to afford big houses with gardens, they’ve given up a year of their young lives staring mindlessly at screens, working – if they’re lucky enough to have kept their jobs – from mouse-infested flats.
Let them enjoy these treasured new freedoms.
