What day is it? #binday

Interestingly enough I have spent my weekend thus far on my arse, painting my record and cd and cassette shelves, the shelves measure 5.4metres long and about 1.4 metres tall at the nadir, this means I can sit on my arse and occasionally shift back down to my knees, the only reason to rise being to fetch a beer from the kitchen and then to empty the beer from the kitchen through Mr Johnson into the toilet. I spoke to my Brother tonight and one of the interesting things that came out of the chat is that I have assumed he calls the old chap (ssshh, his willy) Mr Johnson, after the prime minister because he continually spouts acrid smelling and I suspect foul tasting piss, Mr Johnson, not my brother, if you’ve read this far you’ll understand. If not then just don’t bother any further.

Turns out the Mirror, which I don’t read, has printed a schedule of what is going to happen over the coming months during this shit show, when pubs will open and when pubs will open and also there was something about schools and shops but I’m afraid that is when I zoned out. As the pandemic goes on, and the hours and days spent in lockdown don’t seem to matter any more as I chalk off everyday by forgetting to chalk off every day and when the Bin Men didn’t come on Monday due to the snow, the knowledge of what day it actually was during the week vanished and my understanding of the concept of time, 7 days meaning a week, and “what is the weekend for actually?” began to deteriorate.

The whole world is going to shit, The UK wants to get everyone vaccinated when there are still countries which haven’t even seen a vaccine and possibly places that don’t even know there’s a pandemic, keep away from North Sentinel island if you know whats good for you, so there has been a plea from the WHO to just sit back a bit and give the vaccine meant for the 60 years olds to the old and vulnerable in countries which can not seem to administer or afford the vaccine. Despite sometime in this pandemic, I can’t remember when it’s been so tedious, when the World said that age would be the driver for who got the jab rather than age and then wealth. Which we all knew, lets be honest, was to be the case as all western governments rubbed their hands together at the prospect of escaping the virus because of scientific intervention and nothing at all to do with the governance of this which has been woeful. So the old poor will not receive the vaccine as rapidly as the old rich, because, well they don’t have a business and so are not important, our government would love to rebuff the developing world by ignoring them as what the eyes don’t see therefore means it hasn’t happened.

Christ I ran out of beer tonight while I was painting and as my job is usually supermarket procurement, I usually have an angle on what is circulating within the house food and drink wise. Thank god for Sainsbury’s and Mrs T (the Countess of North Clifton) who snuck in a sneaky shop and chucked in a bottle of red. It’s the little things.


  1. I live in Switzerland since 52 years, the land of banks and gnomes, but even their magical powers cannot mix a vaccine. After spending a week on an overworked telephone connection, which collapsed from sheer exhaustion now and again, we now have an online connection to book our vaccination, which also broke down once and lost a few records in between. We are still waiting for news, which has probably got lost when crossing the Matterhorn or Jungfrau. Patience is a virtue and perhaps by Christmas we might get our shots. I am 74 years old with diabetes and MS and my Mr. Swiss 81 years old. We don’t even have numbered bank accounts


  2. Jings, two blog postings, you really are a bundle of energy , aren’t you!
    I am as impressed as a really impressed person who’s been on a course for learning how to look and act impressed.
    Based on our mutual admiration for our PM, #BorisisaLiar, I was going to send you a piece published when he edited (I use the word in its broad sense) The Spectator.
    I will attempt to do so via an alternative method.
    I assume you have a pigeon loft, like all Englishmen in gritty BBC plays of a bygone era.

    Liked by 1 person

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