It’s pretty much all I’ve got time for now; these oblique strategies are meant to be helping but I find my self getting overly confused with it all. Possibly to do with having to move house and pack up, and what a blooming coincidence that today’s Oblique strategy provided by Eno and Schmidt and orchestrated by all of us here in Frogpool HQ;

Tidy Up.

Which of course has to be done, but not after 11pm, that should be a rule but I fear would be met with disagreement. Hoovering, we have already established, is illegal after 8pm, and so loading and unloading dishwashers after 11pm, surely should be a criminal offence, but I digress, its done now, the washer is purring and lulling the dog to sleep, so there we are. Tidying up is essential but certain times are sacred and I know I’m right.

The picture above relates to the “rule of 6ix” imposed  on us by our anything but glorious leader, and yesterday, in the wilds of rural Worcestershire I found it again, half buried, half forgotten and half understood. Well the news is that after we come out of lockdown on Wednesday we go back into Tiers, which is much the same but with different words to describe the same thing. We’re allowed to get out haircut, but can’t go to the pub with friends, remembering the rule of 6ix, we can go to the pub with the folk we live with but only if that pub sells a substantial meal. Under no circumstances will we talk to the next door tables who will also not be taking to the next door tables and we must not succumb to any such behaviour. The Covid snitch‘s are out and about, the pedantry police who really understand the rules and will obey them to the letter.

Why give us rules which no one really understands or has any sort of faith in, especially when anyone with some semblance of intelligence can see the scientists cringe and squirm, moulding their words to comply with the political direction which has thus far been continually adding kindling to the scattered embers of the virus, creating a bonfire behind closed doors which is only to be fanned with the bellows of Christmas kissing between Grandmas and returning students. Christ help our simple souls we should all fuck off to the mountains of Europe to live but unfortunately because the 2 horse race to Brexit; in or out, was won by the outies, then we have to lump it and stay in the mizzle of a virus which is drenching us. 

Happy Christmas, see you when the vaccine arrives, thank God we’ve got someone in charge who can administer that….

Well, maybe not!