The British Public’s obsession with rhyming within a headline such as the Beast form the East, gives the fucking perishingly cold winds from Russia a kind of joviality they really don’t deserve, this wind is serious stuff and made me turn purple last week at work and have a yearning for a hot tub to warm up my bones. So the rules of the lock down are never clear particularly in England, unlike Wales and Scotland which are pretty cut and dried; Don’t go out, and the virus will stop spreading. In England the general public are policing themselves unless they break down somewhere and then the police will ask them what they’re doing and issue a monster fine , they’re thinking of potentially jailing people for 10 years for flouting quarantine rules when travelling abroad. So the picture from England is slightly confused and as such I took it upon myself to meet up with a friend to walk up the Worcestershire Beacon on Saturday morning. Its blowing a gale, the wind is ice personified, burning my face as we walk up the ridge the Worcestershire wind strong and the Herefordshire side sucks it up. It seems that whenever i’m up the beacon, the wind is vicious and it’s either raining or very cold or both. As we shouted to each other about, mainly, the reopening of pubs and what a great day that will be, descending from the hills to walk into a west side village pub where we can drink frothy local ale and stuff our faces with pork scratchings and chilli peanuts.

That day will pretty soon be upon us I think, on Monday 22nd February, the ramshackle joke of a prime minister is set to address the nation in his smirking, over zealous way. Seeming to think empty bribes and vaccuous promises are the way to the public’s hearts. Reassuring us with Swiss chocolate but giving us Doggie drops. Let’s see what comes out of the announcement next week, but i’m not holding my breath.