WITH the handling of Covid, as with most things, there’s never a shortage of very good arguments against whatever policy is suggested.
This is as true for coming out of lockdown every bit as much as it was going into it. In fact, this phase might be harder.
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The first time we went through this process the Prime Minister was reported to have lamented that taking our liberties away from us was easier than giving them back.
So it is now, with the idea of what we might loosely call vaccine passports, the notion that you couldn’t go into this gig or football match, or go on that holiday unless you’d been vaccinated and/or could offer some proof you were Covid free.
I get all the arguments against this. For a start, it could be pointless. What good is it checking you out as you walk into Wembley if no one’s done the same before you boarded a packed Tube?
Also, it discriminates against those who aren’t vaccinated, be it because they haven’t had, can’t have or don’t want a vaccine. The last of those categories tends to generate less sympathy than the others.
I also get the civil liberties argument that it’s rather dangerous for any government to hold too much information about us.
I share this concern, but it’s a bit like King Cnut still insisting he can stop the tide coming in even though he’s up to his armpits in seawater.
‘THE BATTLE IS OVER’
The battle is over, the Government has so much information about me already that it might as well also know whether I’ve had the vaccine or not.
The NHS knows all about my ailments, afflictions, accidents and medications. HMRC knows about my every penny and, lest there were any gaps in governmental knowledge about me, I’ve just filled in a census form.
There must be all sorts of data attached to my passport number. And my car’s registration, thanks to all the cameras out there, means someone could monitor my every motoring move if they chose to.
Even walking to the shops, I can’t imagine a camera or two isn’t showing me shambling along.
Then there’s all the information you give away every time you tick yes on your smartphone or use it to find your way around. Ever read the terms and conditions, anyone? No, nor me.
Am I comfortable with this? No, not entirely. Do I think it’s a completely bad thing? Again, no, not entirely. Do I think any of this will ever be rolled back?
No, definitely not. It would be like trying to squeeze toothpaste back into its tube.
It’s a miserable situation, but I’m minded to live with it and focus instead on hoping — demanding actually — that no one’s abusing or misusing the information they hold on me, especially the Government.
But if it turned out that I was denied entry to a busy public place because of information being shared that I was unvaccinated, or carrying Covid, I don’t think I’d consider that an abuse of power.
I’d be annoyed, not to say livid, but in the end I’d concede it would be a fair cop.
As both a doctor and a vulnerable shielder asked me this week, aren’t they entitled to be fairly sure in public places that they’re not going to have the virus transmitted to them?
So do we discriminate against them by telling them to stay at home, or against those who can’t or won’t give evidence they present no danger? Neither is fair, but that’s the choice we’re faced with making.
WE’D BE HANDING IN BODY PARTS & ORGANS
I get the sense there’s a big opportunity going begging here, a chance for public health specialists to carry out some really ambitious research.
For example, my football team managed to win away at Chelsea on Saturday. This, ludicrously, had me checking West Brom’s remaining fixtures to see if we could possibly avoid relegation.
If we went on the most unlikely winning run in the history of the Premier League it could conceivably come down to the last game of the season, against Leeds. And it’s at that point that the window of opportunity opens, because there wouldn’t be a West Brom fan alive who wouldn’t give anything to be there.
Never mind a vaccine or Covid test, we’d be handing in body parts and organs as we filed through the turnstiles, happily giving our entire selves over to medical science as a condition of entry.
Outside sport you could stage similar experiments in other cultural fields, carefully tailored to attract specific ages and sexes.
For example, an Oasis reunion gig would get you just about whoever you wanted in the 35-50 age bracket, for older folk a Led Zeppelin reunion would do the trick, or some kind of opera mega-gig, though I couldn’t tell you who would feature in that.
For the yoof: Stormzy, Dua Lipa, Taylor Swift, the list is endless.
Roll up, roll up everyone, hand in your civil liberties at the door and enjoy the show. It’s the only way forward.
I’ll play ketchup to Rod’s mayo
I much enjoyed the thought, raised in yesterday’s Sun, of Rod Stewart once being in the habit of working mayonnaise in his hair to help get it spiky.
It improved its condition, too – his hair that is, not the Hellmann’s.
I was subsequently told that tomato ketchup is also good for the hair if it’s got too much chlorine in it after a swim, or something.
On my radio show on 5 Live, I sought advice as to what condiment I could try on my hair to improve my bristly, grey, squirrel-like mop.
I was advised by an expert to make a paste of ripe avocado and honey, rub it in, and leave it for an hour.
I’m game as a bagel – as a Jewish friend of mind would put it – for this kind of thing, and I’ll be giving it a try as soon as I’ve sorted out the infestation of cluster flies in my flat.
I can tolerate the avocado and honey but 200 feasting flies in the mix would be unpleasant.
Sexual healing
I have good and bad news from the frontier of neurological science.
Professor James Goodwin, eminent in this field, has written a great book called Supercharge Your Brain, which explains, in plain English, the workings of the brain and how to keep it healthy.
To get the bad news out of the way first, too much binge drinking in a gentleman’s younger days can lead to smaller testicles and difficulties with sexual appetite and function in later life.
This, however, leads me on to the better news that there’s an awful lot you can do to maintain brain health, not least lots of sex.
I thought puzzles were good for your head, but apparently not.
Damn. All those sudokus I spent so much time struggling with, when I could have been having sex instead.
Think outside the box
Three things I won’t miss as things go back to normal.
- Cardboard. It’s always worried me. Where does it come from? Where does it go? Is it all really necessary?
I used to write a wine column and was sent lots of stuff to try. This was all very nice, but I found the volume of cardboard involved in the packaging so oppressive I was rather glad when I lost the job.
Now, for the past year, with all the online shopping, I am truly overwhelmed. The smallest of items comes in enough cardboard to make myself a coffin.
I’m sick of tearing and fighting with the bloody stuff trying to flatten and squash it. Please, no more, I need a break.
A small mountain of it appeared in my local supermarket’s car park last week. I gasped in horror. And gasped again when I realised it was quite possibly what only one household had finally got around to dumping. - Tutting. I’m sick of being tutted at, and I’m sick of tutting at people, too.
No mask? Tut. Mask slipped down exposing nose? Tut. Bloke huffing and puffing jogging on pavement towards me: If I don’t move, he tuts, if he gets too close, I tut. Usually we both have a tut. Queue is long? Toilet roll all gone? Big group in the park? Tut tut tut. We’re all wearing out the roofs of our mouths, the tutting must stop. - Selfies of celebrities getting vaccinated. For the first few days it was rather sweet.
Yes, it was all miraculous and we should give all respect, love and gratitude to those who developed and administer the vaccine.
But please no more, we don’t need a photo of you being injected on Twitter. It’s just not interesting.
Tens of millions have been jabbed, hundreds of thousands every day. Please, no more pictures.
Inching ahead
I’d love to follow Ulrika Jonsson’s lead in yesterday’s paper, and praise the beautiful men, rather than the women, who’ve got us through lockdown.
The trouble is I can’t, because I’m blinded by my love for just one man, a man no one else can come close to for perfect beauty. That man is Justin Hartley.
I suppose it helps that he’s in one of the greatest TV series ever made, This Is Us. His character is often annoying, but it doesn’t matter, he’s so good looking you’d forgive him anything.
He’s just so downright symmetrical. Sometimes I pause the telly when he’s on a close-up, get my ruler out and take measurements.
Yes, I can confirm, he’s inch-perfect.
