I suspect we’re all beginning to sound like one of my heroes; the late, great Rikki Fulton’s institutionally pessimistic Reverend IM Jolly.
“Haaaallooa. It disnae get ony better, dis it?” The minister wi’ the whiny voice and face that’s trippin’ him is perfect for the pandemic.
That’s just fit we a’ say these days, when our Neest greeting used to be: “Aye, aye. ‘Tsaffa wither.” And a’ the claik wi’ fellow-wrinklie mates this past week has been aboot when those damnt envelopes with oor jabbie appointments will hit oor letterboxes. White or blue in Scotland. Why in the name of a’ that’s sensible blue? For the Nats’ Saltire? Or do they think feel al’ folk just chuck white envelopes straight in the bucket?
They’re supposed to be arriving with all over-70s this week or next. I’ll believe it when I see it, given the oncairry I had with the flu vax at the end of last year. When a’body I knew had been needled weeks before, I remained letterless. After nearly an hour on the phone trying to get through to the helpline, I finally got an appointment, to be followed over the next few days by two emails and a text with dates and times for three different venues. Brewery and party comes to mind. Little wonder I’m a feartie I might slip through the net again.
Fa’d hiv thocht we’d a’ be so desperate to get an injection?
And fa’d hiv thocht we’d be linin’ up for a place in a pod at the P&J Live arena, of a’ places, which looks to be the jabby-venue for most of us in the city.
How times have changed. One minute you’re swoonin’ at your favourite stars, like Michael Buble, the next you’re faintin’ at the sight o’ the needle… for the antedote to Fever.
As it happens – and it’s a wee bittie spooky – the last time I was at the Pee’n’Jay, for December’s Ball and Boe concert (Alfie, you’re this al’ wifie’s heartbreaker) I actually suffered a major jab in my arm from a passing patron. While a pal was doing her pre-show bizz, I was hoverin’ – with my plastic cuppie o’ vino cheapo – ootside the lavvies. Suddenly this al’ biddie came careerin’ oot o’ naewye, elbowed me aside and rocketed into a vacant cludgie. Obviously gone a tiddle too far.
So I’ll be on the watch for her in my jabby line, and might even get my own back…
Boris ought to be sent packing for his failures
Two of my cousins live abroad.
I so envy the one in New Zealand, whose life is virtually back to normal thanks to Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern imposing swingeing lockdown measures at the first signs of the pandemic, including a ban on anyone entering the country.
Even given the fact the island’s population is a fraction of ours, the results of her precautions are remarkable – 2,300 Covid cases and only 25 deaths.
My other cousin lives in South Africa, where the situation is dramatically different and a new, even more virulent strain of the virus has evolved.
At the weekend, her 65-year-old son-in-law died from Covid, six months after recovering from heart surgery. Her daughter and son have both contracted and recovered from it.
Boris Johnson says he takes full responsibility for the UK’s truly horrendous toll of more than 100,000 deaths.
Too true. Since March, the British people have been subjected to a catalogue of catastrophically wrong – indeed fatal – decisions in the management of the pandemic, including Johnson missing four weeks of the Cobra emergency committee back when the looming danger was first spotted and a shield should have been thrown round our island.
Since he hasn’t done the honourable thing and resigned, MPs should kick him out.
Shocking targeting of kids’ favourite
The sick behaviour of some folk is truly breathtaking. Makes my heart sink.
Like the campaign against one of telly’s most loveable childrens’ entertainers – the wonderful Mr Tumble, played by super-versatile Justin Fletcher.
My two grand-Toots adored him, as did their old Nana here. But a grim faked video on social media has attempted to brand him a racist – a man who clearly adores and can connect with all children.
We should all be standing up and shouting: “Mr Tuuuumble. We luuuuv you!”