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Camping Trip

We watch a lot of rubbish on our phones these days. While I may not be captive to the drudgery and soul sapping likes of Tik Tok and stuff like that, there is still a place for such mindless nonsense in my life. I talk of that specific point of the day in which you are tasked with something mundane but necessary. Making breakfast for example, or putting clothes on (not always necessary but, in general, recommended). Although I will occasionally binge something suited to background comfort viewing on the Netflix app, You Tube tends to be my go to medium for such things and I watch a plethora of useless output while I’m pottering around the flat. From videos of other people playing video games, some guy talking about watches, pens and spreadsheets (don’t ask), videos of what people carry in their pockets, the occasional compilation of people getting hit in the face with balls (my all time favourite thing) and, most recently, videos of people going camping.

In particular, credit here must go to a chap called Steve who has a channel called ‘Camping with Steve’. In it, Steve goes camping. It’s a simple as that (although the episodes where he goes stealth camping do add some variety and excitement to proceedings). Steve is an ultra-chilled, super friendly Canadian who takes the viewer on a trip into the Canadian countryside and allows you to imagine for a second that you are along with him on a nice sedate trip, away from the noise and responsibility of everyday life. Occasionally, he’ll bring along a mad looking gent with long hair and one of those beards so substantial that it muffles your voice, whom he refers to only as ‘Crazy Neighbour’ but whether accompanied or not, there’s something relaxing and calming about it all. 

So it is then, that I am now standing next to my car in a small gravel layby alongside a sleepy village green in the middle of nowhere, as if I’m a spy waiting for a drop. My bag, laden with the new equipment I have accumulated over the last week or so, (much of it snatched up in a frenzy from the, frankly obscene, sale the local Millets were putting on), lies on a grassy bank nearby. I am waiting for my mate Rich who will be my companion for the next 24 hours or so. My girlfriend has already made it clear she is ‘not up for it.’

Rich pulls up in his car, all suited and booted, straight from work. Like Crazy Neighbour, he too has long hair (that I have always been very jealous of) and a beard, but his attire does not paint him as someone about to embark on a wild camping trip. He dives into the back seat of his car to change and emerges looking like a different man. He now wears all green and camo, sports an army issue back pack and, with his hirsute appearance, looks as if he is just about to join a sit in for Extinction Rebellion.

‘It’s a short 30 minute walk to the spot’, he tells me cheerfully. Rich has been here before and knows the area better than me. As we set off, it’s a good chance to catch up as we’ve not seen each other for a while. We soon pass some ridiculous houses; the sort that have remote gates and the actual house is too distant from the road to be seen clearly.

I have quite a lot of stuff in my pack, including a tent and it quickly becomes apparent that this is not a ‘short 30 minute walk.’ My knees are screaming at me but I don’t let on so as not to lose face. Rich seems unphased by the slope we are descending while all I can think about is the fact that we are going to have to climb this again in the morning.

Like an accomplished Sherpa, Rich guides me first along undulating paths and then into woodland (at one point identifying a rare type of fern as if Ray Mears himself were here with me) and soon, down a perilous slope which we have to edge down sideways. Arduous as this is, it’s great to be outside in the fresh air doing something a bit different. I see the glisten of the river through the trees and I know we’re almost there.

We reach the bank of the river and move northwards along it, past loads of rubbish left by wankers. This is why wild camping is not technically legal, we remark to each other. Not much farther, we find a perfect spot to set up camp and we crack open a couple of beers to celebrate. As we sit on a log by the water, we watch an Aryan-looking cohort of public school boys row past us. (Collective noun for posh public school boys? A cox-less four? A Parliament??). Instructors wail at them through megaphones from motor boats.

One lanky kid in a single tries to take a rest, completely unaware we are there a few feet away and watching with amusement. From some way away, he is suddenly told via megaphone to ‘get the bloody hell on with it.’

As the sun begins to set, we set up camp. I pitch my tent while Rich strings up his outdoor hammock. (Of course he has an outdoor hammock). I must admit, it looks pretty badass. There is a brief moment of horror as Rich discovers what looks like a lower jaw bone tucked into the trunk and it takes us a few moments to reassure ourselves that it isn’t human.

Next up we have dinner. I have managed to pick up some pretty nifty cooking stuff and I quietly congratulate myself on not only this, but also the fold up stool that I am sitting on as I cook; arguably the best thing I’ve brought with me. I heat up some tomato lentil broth with some delicious veggie sausages mixed in and I can honestly say I would be pleased with that in a restaurant. Quite the woodsman, I think to myself.

As the sun gives its last, we gather some firewood and light a small fire. As we compare notes on Netflix and Amazon programmes to ensure neither of us has missed anything awesome, we hear a rustle in the bushes. So dense is the darkness by now that not even my awesome head torch can make anything out. With the severed jaw in mind, we retire for the night, Rich to his hammock and I to my tent. It’s a comfy night and it is not long before I drift off. The next time I wake, it is still pitch black but I can hear rustling in the bushes again, this time closer than before. It’s fine, I tell myself. Rich has probably just decided to have a wander. The trouble is, I need a pee. I remind myself that this is the UK and it is unlikely there are any wild animals out to get me. (I am reminded of another time when I was camping in the Rocky mountains – legit bear country – this time in the same tent as my mate Dave who woke in the middle of the night having suddenly realised that the rustling outside our tent might have something to do with the sandwich he had left in his pocket.)

I leave the tent, take a piss and am not mauled to death or indeed horribly murdered. Other than distant machinery, probably work on the railway which is not too far from here, the night is otherwise unremarkable and come morning, I feel pretty satisfied. Rich tells me he has also had an alright night but was perhaps a bit cold and I am not sure if he senses my smugness.

While sitting on my trusty stool, I brew some tea and cook some bacon on my stove as the mist rises from the river. The tranquillity of the moment is rudely interrupted by the sight of an enormous spider crawling up my jumper towards my throat, which I have to get rid of pretty sharpish. I briefly remember a moment when, half asleep, I brushed something from my face; I thought this was my ever growing hair (my aim is to be as long as Rich’s) but I now realise that the spider was most likely with me all night.

This aside, it has been a huge success. Full with bacon and tea, I pack up my gear and as Rich and I walk back along the banks, we spot two nutters swimming down the rider with dry bags pushed in front of them. Lo and behold they reach the bank next to us and climb out. One guy is literally just in his pants.

‘Ya, hi guys. Did you camp out last night?’ (said really poshly).

We confirm to them that we did. It turns out that these two like to go for runs, then take a dip in the river midway through before trail running their way out again. Sure enough, a bit further along we are overtaken by the two of them, this time clothed, thank God. While Rich and I lug our massive packs up the impossibly steep hill, they prance by energetically, giving us a friendly lycra clad wave.

The familiar creek of my knees gradually returns. We have done our bit and taken away as much of the rubbish left further down the river bank as we can, so we are still weighed down somewhat. Halfway along, it is Rich that signals for a rest. I make out like that’s fine, if he needs it. In reality, I am rejoicing.

As we reach the cars, I realise we have made it and without a hitch. Rich’s expert location scouting has done the trick and though we part ways, it is on the understanding that this is but the beginning. I could really get into this camping thing and it beats just watching other people do it on You Tube!

Haunting at Frimley

This ghost hunting is fast becoming a thing. As we had a bit of time to spend away again not long after our trip to Bath, Rach decided we should go on a nice relaxing spa trip. I, on the other hand, had other ideas. More ghoulish antics were definitely called for. 

Step in Frimley Hall hotel – Spa and gym package on the one hand, haunted house on the other.

With our weekend all booked, our journey to Surrey is comfortably short and, whether it is a spike in confidence or just plain denial, Rach seems annoyingly calm. Perhaps she is focused on the impending dressing gown and slipper combo (slippers which, I would argue, provide sub-par purchase on the ground should she need to run from a ghost and that’s not even factoring in the trip hazard).

I’m not ashamed to admit that I am a little disappointed at her laissez faire attitude but I am rewarded for my patience as soon as we arrive on the driveway at Frimley Hall. Her exact words are ” Oh my God, this is horrible.” Turns out she has just been hiding her anxiety a bit better this time around. 

Excellent, I think to myself. Her words are, in fairness, a little harsh to the good people at Frimley Hall. The building and grounds are lovely but I can also see what she means. It has a stately feel with lots of intricate nooks and crannies across its ivy-covered facade. It looks like the sort of place the location scouts from Jonathan Creek would be all over. 

We arrive just as the sun is setting and I can tell Rach is eager to get things sorted before it disappears altogether. Despite her barked instructions on how to carry our bags in, I can’t help be be distracted by the massive tree out front. I comment that perhaps it is the biggest tree I have ever seen in this country. The trunk is thick certainly, but the sheer height of it is quite something. Rach tells me to stop going on about the tree. 

We enter reception through a stone archway, its heavy wooden doors opened and propped either side. Pretty much everything in here is wooden – the stairs, the floor, the desk. I note that the tree outside is lucky to be still standing. The guy at the desk who checks us in has a really calm and sleepy voice and I have to stifle a yawn. As I stand there a bit dazed, Rach is staring up the wooden staircase, a little frown just visible on her face. This, I realise, is the exact epicentre of the hauntings at Frimely Hall. 

Legend has it that, back in the depths of time, a nanny took her eyes off the child she was looking after just long enough for it to have fallen down the staircase, dead. (Frankly, the stairs are so shallow and are so nicely carpeted that, for a child fragile enough to die from a tumble down these stairs, it was only a matter of time anyway).

Either way, from then on, it is said that the ghost of the nanny frequents the top of the staircase and the landing along from it, wailing in anguish over the time she dropped the ball. 

All checked in, we get to our room, not too far from the aforementioned landing but because it is a newer part of the building, I sense Rach instantly relax. Even more so when she realises there is a bottle of Prosecco waiting for us within. 

There’s a quick turnaround before dinner, punctuated by a brief panic when we realise there’s no hairdryer in the room. Rach leads the outcry but, as I’m currently growing my hair, I’m secretly bricking it also. Fortunately a quick call to reception (its the guy with the relaxing voice again) saves the day. 

At dinner, it becomes clear that the hotel is far from full. The Covid 19 pandemic has hit the place hard. The dining room is uncrowded and there are apparently only 6 staff present forming some sort of skeleton crew. The parallels with a Jonathan Creek mystery are beginning to strengthen. 

Dinner is lovely and halfway through Rach feels a chill behind her which neither of us can explain. She goes a bit pale while I examine the cutlery, with which I am very impressed – weighty, with a premium feel but really quite small so my hands look and feel massive.

Over desert, I whip out my phone to read a bit more about the building. Originally a family home, Frimley Hall dates form around the 1800s. After changing hands several times over the years, it became a hotel from the 1930s, briefly providing a location for the women’s naval service during and for a time shortly after WW2. 

To me, it is the wartime era that it most retains from its history. I can imagine the dining room as a mess hall and the drawing room next door somewhere the officers could retire to for cigars and brandy. 

It is to the drawing room we move to after dinner and, a little caught up in the feel of it all, I order a whiskey. The waitress hesitates when I asked what selection they have. Rach doesn’t hold back in asking why – they’re not exactly run off their feet so we have a good old chat here – and she admits she has to go to the cellars to get the whiskey I have ordered. 

‘Awesome,’ I say, as Rach recoils at the realisation that there are cellars here. Of course, we then ask about the ghost stories and it turns out they are ‘legit’. She talks of people having seen a white figure at the top of the stairs, of strange wailing noises at night, and of doors slamming for no reason. 

While we are talking, Rach grabs my arm and whispers to me that she can feel the chill again. I point out to her that we are sitting directly next to an open window. 

That night, we get to sleep without any drama. In Bath, our previous trip, I was woken quite early on. This time, I manage to sleep through a good portion of the night. However, around 4am, I am prodded awake. Rach is staring at me in the darkness, clearly terrified. 

‘What is it?’ I ask. 

‘Are you awake?’ she asks. 

‘Uh, yes,’ I reply.

‘Who were you talking to?’ she asks. 

‘What?’ I ask, extremely confused by now. 

‘You were saying “Yes please”. Who were you talking to?’

I had apparently been sleep-talking. Not something I usually do (with one exception in my early twenties when I was witnessed to have jumped upright while fast asleep shouting “cover me!”.)

I admit I have no idea as to what I was accepting, nor from whom I was accepting it, but I quietly acknowledge to myself an element of satisfaction that I remain polite even while unconscious.

This is only half of the story though. Rach then draws my attention to the sound of the zip on my suitcase. I hear nothing now but apparently something, or someone has been causing it to rattle for some time now. I laugh, thinking she is joking but her wide eyes tell me she is deeply concerned. I go back to sleep. 

In the morning, she tells me that the preceding night had been worse than anything experienced in Bath and that my nighttime conversation had been very creepy. I tell her I have no memory of it and suggest I may have been possessed. She hits me. 

The gym is booked after breakfast where we have a good workout and then finish with a dip in the pool. We discuss our plans for the day. At the George, we have the historic city of Bath on our doorstep. Here we have Camberly, Brookwood cemetery and Basingstoke canal. We decide to relax at the hotel. 

That afternoon, we return to the drawing room for some afternoon tea. We are challenged by the waitress to guess the flavour of one of the sweets. I realise this is a far cry from the pub crawls of my youth and half expect them to switch the T.V on just in time for Countdown. Mercifully, I realise it is the weekend, so no Countdown for at least 2 days. 

The afternoon tea is delicious, the scones artery-clogging. We have the obligatory ‘clotted cream or jam first’ discussion. Rach orders some chips. 

After a nap, we escape the confines of the hotel to have dinner at a local pub. The portion sizes here are north American and Rach orders the ‘Ultimate Burger’. I order the salmon and when they bring them to our table, the waiter assumes the burger is for me as it is literally the size of Rach’s head. 

As large as it is, both meals are delicious and make us rather sleepy. We pull up to Frimley Hall again, lit in moonlight and looking quite spooky. Rach is emboldened by an espresso martini or two, so we explore the landing and examine a picture on the wall we assume is of the nanny. I swear blind the eyes are following us and Rach hits me again. 

Fortunately the night passes without even the faintest of zip themed interruptions. Nor it would seem am I offered anything else in my sleep. We wake up ready for our morning gym session and I am in big trouble for making Rach go. The espresso martinis may have something to do with this. 

After this, we sit down for a nice leisurely breakfast and I marvel at the ketchup sachets. Rather than tearing unevenly down one side like the ones in Burger King or Macdonalds, these almost miraculously tear in a perfect horizontal line across the top. I don’t know why these things aren’t everywhere. 

After breakfast, we go for a full body massage. Rach gets the short straw – her masseuse apparently ‘didn’t have her heart in it.’

If hers didn’t, then mine certainly did. I’ve never had a massage this long or extensive and I walk out of it feeling like a million dollars. I didn’t realise they did the toes as well. And to top it all off, we weren’t murdered by ghosts. So, as we bid goodbye to the silken voiced receptionist, I think to myself that this spa thing isn’t such a bad idea after-all. I could certainly get used to it.

W

Ghost Hunt in Bath

Before I go any further, I don’t believe in ghosts. I will admit, however, that I suggested to my girlfriend Rachel that the hotel we were staying in this weekend looks haunted. 

This was, in retrospect, a bad idea as it turns out Rachel does believe in ghosts. Cue a quick google search for ‘Most Haunted’ and, lo and behold, our destination has been the focus for ghost hunters on several different occasions. It turns out it really is haunted!

We read some accounts from former visitors, one of whom claims to have seen a figure standing at the foot of his bed and another sensing pressure on the mattress, as if someone was resting there next to them. 

Rachel became rather transfixed on staying somewhere else after that but, despite her protestations, our weekend booking remained in place. 

The George Inn, situated in the village of Norton St Philip, is a 15 minute car journey from Bath. Neither of us had been to Bath before, so it was an ideal destination. 

We arrived on a blisteringly hot Friday afternoon, me looking forward to relaxing for the weekend and Rachel bricking it far more than I had come to realise. 

The George Inn looks haunted. It really does. Standing 4 stories high, it looks distinctly medieval with its thick wooden beams and its curved and warped walls, all askew. It is apparently 700 years old and claims to be the oldest inn in the UK.

Upon our arrival we are met by a pleasant but harried hotel employee, all masked up for Covid. Immediately Rachel asks if it is haunted, to which he replies with a well rehearsed speech that he has not personally witnessed anything but others certainly had. In my opinion, he gives only enough information to maintain the mystery. Clever.

We  are shown to our room, the King Charles room, up a creaky wooden spiral staircase on the 1st floor. The floor slants towards us so much as we enter that I’m sure any loose items would rush out of the door. A huge wedge is necessary under 2 of the 4 legs of the bed to keep it level. A portrait of a suitably unimpressed King Charles sits on one wall while a tapestry of a medieval polo game hangs above the bed. 

Elsewhere, other ancient drawings in the characteristically child-like (shit) style of our ancestors fill the gaps on the other walls. Rather excellently, the hanging sign for the inn is directly outside our window and it makes a creaking sound in the wind. Rachel looks a bit pale. 

We drop off our stuff and we go for a wander around the village. It seems very quiet and sleepy; a crossroads village really although it used to be big in the wool industry apparently. The view of the church against the backdrop of the fields beyond across the village green provides a photo op. 

As we walk, we discuss the possibility that the entire village is a front for an MI6 base. Rachel laughs this off but I’m not so sure. 

We linger in the church graveyard and look at some of the gravestones – some ancient, worn and overgrown and others fresh and well tended. Further on we pass a dried up stream and an oddly placed apple, rotten as if from the opening titles of the Walking Dead. Perhaps most chilling of all, I notice a cuddly toy (a rabbit I think) as it lies face down in an overgrown driveway next to some rusty swings that creak slowly in the breeze. I don’t tell Rachel.

Back at the Inn, we take a peek into the ‘dungeons’. This sunken area is cooler than outside and has been turned into a sort of second bar area/ function room. From the chains hung on the walls, its original purpose is clearly not forgotten. The story goes that a group of rebels who fought with the Duke of Monmouthsire in his rebellion to overthrow King James II in the late 1600s, were housed in the inn the night before their execution just over the road. 

Legend has it that a guard was also executed by mistake – a chap known as ‘the innocent bystander’. A chilling room then – in more ways than one – but though it keeps Rachel uncharacteristically quiet, I can’t help  but notice it has an excellent sound system. 

We eat dinner at the George  a bit later on and, bolstered by some Dutch courage, Rachel collars the landlady and probes into the hauntings a bit more. She is as evasive as her employee from earlier on, very much the party line I think. However, she throws Rachel one snippet of info – another guest having apparently seen or felt something the previous night. 

Armed with this news, we retire to our bedroom, this time under the cover of darkness at which point a vital and thorough conversation takes place. Which lights should remain on?

My argument is that all lights should be off. From a purely clinical point  of view of course, that’s just good sleep hygiene. Rachel argues the complete opposite. Fortunately my argument wins out and we settle in for the night. 

It’s 2.08 and I am shaken awake from a deep sleep. I have been efficiently working my way through some sort of checklist in my dream – a list that I am nine tenths of the way through. It is a list that I will now never know what it feels like to complete. 

I look to my left where my eyes meet Rachel’s, wide in the moonlight. 

‘What is it?’ I ask. 

‘Nothing,’ comes the reply.

”Why did you wake me up then?’ I ask again.

‘I can’t sleep.’ 

Clearly nor now can I. 

This goes on for a bit and eventually I am asked to stay up and read while Rachel goes to sleep. I cast my eyes around the room, searching the shadows for any obvious ghosts. There are none.

With a sigh I sit up and get my book out – a non-fiction about the periodic table. Even despite the fact that it is bloody boiling, this is not the sort of book that is necessarily suited to staying awake at such an early hour and, though I really do give it a try, the next thing I know it’s morning. 

Breakfast consists of wheetabix, a cup of tea and one of my top 5 rated croissants of all time. 

I receive quite a detailed account of the night from Rachel’s perspective. I hear a lot about noises from the floor below and about the creaking sign but no concrete evidence of any ghosts. 

My attention wanders to the impressive ‘George Inn’ branded napkins which are of such high quality that I hesitate to use them. 

To get Rachel’s mind off the upcoming night number two, at one point seriously under threat in favour of a Premier Inn, we spend the day in Bath. 

It’s a great day. We walk to Pulteney Bridge, which I read was built in 1774 and stands out due to the shops built into it. From there we take a walk around the market from which I buy a notepad to record some travel notes. I flirt with buying a flat cap which I have felt for a while would really suit me. Rachel says no. 

We have lunch at Bill’s although Rachel is almost denied entrance after recording a high temperature upon arrival. It turns out their thermometer is tricked by the warmth of her forehead from standing outside in the sun. Strange times we live in. 

From there, we spends a few hours exploring the Roman baths, glasses of prosecco in hand. It is genuinely interesting and the audio guide is good (not as good as the one at Alcatraz though if you ever decide to visit).

We both decide to upgrade our face masks in WH Smiths of all places. Now looking flush and significantly cooler in our sleek black masks, we head for drinks in a bar and from there onto a converted railway station to eat Italian food and listen to some live jazz. The drummer reminds me a bit of Jim Broadbent. 

I’m impressed with Bath. It is genuinely unique, with its sandy stonework and its sunken valley setting. Quite alternative; a bit like nearby Bristol or faraway Portland, though perhaps lacking the edge of those places, a bit more self contained and certainly without the same amenities that a bigger city might have. For those seeking a quiet and scenic existence, almost certainly a nice place to live. 

Back at the inn, it’s night 2. Before we go to our room, I see someone in the bar that looks a bit like my brother-in-law’s sister-in-law. When I point it out, Rachel doesn’t care for some reason. 

To my surprise there is relatively little fuss as we settle down but once again, later that night I am awakened by a now terrified Rachel. She has heard something. 

‘Did you hear that?’ she asks. 

I shake my head, eyes barely open. We lie and listen for a while but there really is no sound at all. Through-traffic seems minimal at night; a real plus point I would say for the village of Norton St Philip.

There follows a very serious conversation about whether or not to sleep in the car but we decide that ghosts could probably access the car park as well as they might the King Charles room. I do my reading thing again, this time managing to stay awake for a bit longer. I learn a bit about sulphur and its biblical applications before I fall asleep again.

The croissant in the morning is not nearly as good. It must have been a freak batch the day before. Rachel looks very tired but is at least relieved that we survived the night. Only now we are leaving does the landlady reveal more detail, spurred on by Rachel’s enthusiastic questions. It turns out that another guest, seemingly unaware of the spectral nature of the inn had reported sensing the presence of someone in his room the night before last. I note a visible chill run down Rachel’s spine as the story is told, particularly when it turns out the seemingly obvious guest had described seeing someone in guard’s uniform in the darkness.

I don’t think Rachel will ever return to the George Inn, but that’s not to say we didn’t enjoy the weekend. Over a roast on the route home, we discuss whether she would try any other haunted locations. She says no.

I remain hopeful though. And who knows, if any other vacancies at haunted hotels pop up, who’s to say I won’t be able to convince her to book a night or two again? Especially if she doesn’t know it’s haunted 😉

W  

 

Black Lives Matter

To avoid letting all of that unfocused anger simmer into a lifetime of disquiet and more division, the movement needs a leader.

It’s been a few weeks now since the Black Lives Matter movement hit the headlines with a surge of media coverage. As we all know, it was triggered by one particularly heinous incident in the US but there have been countless other instances along the same lines throughout history. Why then all the furore now? Perhaps the shocking footage being circulated across social media, perhaps the need to lash out following weeks of being confined to homes. Whatever the reason, it all seems to be fading again. What has it achieved? Call me a pessimist, but perhaps not much. It is even possible things have been made worse.


While mostly peaceful, some of the protests have been marred by violence (far eclipsed by the far right counter demonstrations). More to the point, it has also highlighted, from my perspective, a vague sort of righteousness from many corners that in many ways feels a little disingenuous; as if one must speak out on this as more of a procedural duty rather than from any meaningful understanding. While many campaign, I wonder whether some really get it. ( I should say that most – the BAME campaigners, many of whom will have experienced some form of racism – will almost certainly ‘get it’ in one way or another.) Arguably however, the campaigning that does take place is not necessarily useful.

I understand from some points of view the need for democratic decision in a civilised society when it comes to removing a statue. The debates regarding the statue in Oxford are probably more in keeping with this rather than the unceremonious toppling we saw in Bristol. Having said that, if the democratic process is demonstrably failing to acknowledge the issues, I can’t be too critical of those involved. When you see young girls burning the union jack on the cenotaph however, it is clear to me that the emotions (justifiably strong) of some are misguided.


My fear is that this movement, as well meaning as it is, is merely deepening the divide. There will be a significant proportion of people in the UK I am sure who will see these protests in a negative light and this will galvanise inherent racism all across the country. (Particularly as they fell in the midst of a pandemic which many will have been diligently isolating from – don’t forget, those out protesting and not observing the lockdown may not become unwell themselves but will potentially spread coronavirus and be responsible for deaths of others that could have been avoided. Raheem Stirling said that there was only one virus. I’m afraid he is wrong.)


However, more worryingly, I can’t help but wonder if other more moderate individuals will begin to feel a little intimidated by the ease with which BAME individuals label anything that happens to them as ‘racist’. For example, I mentioned to someone the other day that a friend of mine was playing a character with a Caribbean accent and they replied asking if that’s ok to do? It got me thinking. Why shouldn’t it be? From my point of view, being able to impersonate and Australian accent or an American one but not a traditionally BAME accent deepens the divide rather than heals it. Many celebrities have come out recently apologising for using ‘black face’. This is a little more contentious perhaps but nevertheless open to interpretation in the same way. I would argue that, as long as done without malice or under a genuine misguided sense of superiority, it is not offensive. Of course, things are not often so simple and there is a spectrum but we must all use a bit of common sense from time to time rather than cry fowl at every opportunity.


In many instances, this oversensitivity is counter productive and could be seen as ‘political correctness gone mad’ by many. BAME individuals will inevitably be treated differently under this scenario, with many people tip-toeing around issues or even avoiding altogether in order to avoid making some unintended faux pas.


Of course, I do have sympathy to the reactions of many considering the unimaginable injustice that has occurred historically and unfortunately that still does today. My point is that, while racism must be tackled, tackling it in the wrong way makes it somewhat of a self fulfilling prophecy. All the while, the more damaging and malignant stuff carries on underneath. In order to wipe out this sort of discrimination, it needs two things: time and focus.


Generally speaking, racist leanings are learned behaviours from parents or peers. Once learnt, they are very difficult to wipe. The call for education and inclusion in curriculums of things like slavery therefore is one of the positives of the Black Lives Matter movement. As the older generations fade, time will hopefully bring more enlightened younger ones. Hence time but also focus. Arguably the focus element is most important here. To avoid letting all of that unfocused anger simmer into a lifetime of disquiet and more division, the movement needs a leader.

It needs someone who is measured and accessible to people of all races. Someone who can guide the anger of those who have been wronged and help them to heal the divides and encourage others to heal their own prejudices. Someone who is able to build influence enough to discourage people from self destructive behaviours such as the protests during the pandemic (not all self destructive I should say because it has of course got everyone talking about it) but instead encouraging people to channel their emotions into more sensible and tactically more beneficial endeavours; ones that are not going to alienate the huge swathes of society that are probably the ones they need to win over the most.

While there are higher proportions of BAME people living in poverty, this is a result of historic disadvantage and current division and cannot be changed overnight. Poverty, from an economic point of view must be tackled as one issue, not divided up into white and BAME poverty or else the divides will continue through the generations. From a social point of view however, BAME poverty can be changed only by a focus on changing attitudes.


To find someone who can guide us all through such a change is challenging. Whether someone suitable will step up to the plate is hard to say. If no one steps up – or indeed if the wrong person does – and perpetuates the divisions further, then I fear this brief surge in popularity will have little impact in the long run.

W

Thoughts of the Week

It’s been however many weeks now in lockdown and, although easing a little, much of the entertainment (or at least unpleasant distraction) is watching our government muddle their way through things in farcical fashion.


Covid aside for a second, there was furore about the $26,000 (actually pounds but my keyboard doesn’t let me do a pounds symbol) or so salary limit on foreign workers, with critics accusing the government of not valuing the work of those on lower salaries. My gut reaction was to agree with the dissent until I heard another side to the argument – that workers below this salary cap can be more easily and more cheaply trained; not that the people and the jobs being done were at all not valued. I don’t like our government, don’t get me wrong, but it was a moment I had to check myself and remind myself that there is bias on both sides of the spectrum and there are always two sides to the story. This is something that we must all be wary of. Even when there is no attempt to deliberately mislead (and there are plenty of examples of that), the sheer strength of opinion almost took me to one side of an argument that, when one looks closer and puts aside bias, is not quite as simple as it seems.


I tried to remain measured when it came to Cummings. I really did. ‘If it was just a trip up to the house in Durham to isolate there’ I said, ‘then well I suppose I can understand that’. Of course, everyone now knows it wasn’t just that and to defend it is indefensible in itself. If you disagree you are hopelessly deluded or there’s something in it for you.
It is this sort of blatant disregard for accountability and flagrant shamelessness that we have come to know and love in politics in recent times, to the extent that even those who have practised it in the past have called Cummings and the PM out for it.


Our leaders are a bit like that naughty child at school. The one who constantly pushes his luck and plays up, each time emboldened when the consequences are far less severe than anticipated, the bluff of punishment having been well and truly called.


Not many succeed at this better than Donald Trump but, to me at least, it is obvious in our government too. Frankly I wouldn’t even trust Boris or anyone of his cronies to take a picture of me lest they run of with the camera. What surprises me is that some people are surprised. There are those who are now saying that this blatant refusal to be held to account in a position of power is a slippery slope. Of course this is true but what many don’t realise is that we’re half way down that slope already.


Enough of that. In other news, I’ve been reminiscing on my childhood Wednesday evening tv viewings (the slot just after the Neighbours/Simpsons power combo of my teenage years). Star Trek is not my favourite of the “Star” franchises. Despite the tangled and ill thought out mess of the recent Star Wars films, I favour the original trilogy above all else. Having said that, I did enjoy Patrick Stewart in the Next Generation, if not just for the outstanding potential for quotes. (“engage”, “make it so” etc). The new Picard series was something I was a bit sceptical of as reviews had, for some reason, been a bit cold. I have no idea why because quite honestly it’s brilliant. Clever, action packed, stylish, nostalgic and quite poignant so far, I am absolutely loving it. I genuinely don’t want it to end (although I will definitely finish the series, unlike my refusal to watch the last season of Lost, thereby somehow making it last forever in my head). Anyway, watch Picard, it’s awesome.


One final note, this week on cyclists. This lanky and lycra-clad species are a perpetual menace to me at the best of times. Let me be straight, I am never aggressive and am always safe when I drive but deep within me, I boil over with rage whenever I see one on the road. They are particularly irritating when strong in numbers, sitting lazily in packs across an entire lane and quite literally stealing 10 minutes of my life away from me. The rage is intensified all the more as they sail straight through a red light, presumably safe in the knowledge that they’ll just phase through any oncoming traffic without so much as a hair out of place (although is it just me, or are a lot of them not just tall and lanky but also quite prone to balding as well?). Either way, I don’t know if it’s the lockdown, the weather or both but there’s bloody loads of them out at the moment. They need to stop it. In the interests of balance, I will mention the one cyclist who waved me past him as the traffic light went green the other day. I was so shocked that he’d even obeyed the law enough to stop at the red light, let alone reveal some semblance of a conscience, so perhaps I didn’t thank him as much as I should have done. Regardless, he is in the minority. Get rid of them.


Ps. As a doctor, quite apart from the environmental benefits, I would say cycling is an excellent form of aerobic exercise, especially if you want to take the load off your knees and it should be unfalteringly encouraged.
W

Thoughts of the Week

What a bizarre few weeks under lockdown this has been. While much of my life has been fairly similar in terms of structure (ie normal working days etc) the content of those days has been very different. I am one of the lucky ones in this respect. Fortunately, what my life has lacked in terms of pubs and cafes and shops, it has made up for in other ways.
The excellently amateur online pub quiz has been a particular highlight on a Thursday and Saturday night. It is genuinely something I look forward to and is something the whole family gets involved in. I have also been playing on the PlayStation a lot (Divinity: Original Sin 2 for those who are interested – an extremely nerdy but very involved dungeons and dragons type game which is not my normal choice but which I am finding awesome fun). Coupled with that – and I really have been getting my geek on – I have started playing a real life dungeons and dragons story with a group of friends via Zoom. I’ve never tried it before and I have to say, it’s cracking fun. Great change to catch up with friends from around the country (and the world) apart from anything else.


That has reminded me of a Harvard study I read about once in which levels of happiness were measured and quantified. The outcome I remember was quite poignant – those who were the happiest weren’t the richest or the most successful necessarily but were the ones who had maintained close friendship groups for long periods through their lives. Something that is particularly relevant at the moment I think. With so many people separated and levels of mental health issues rising, we should all be seeking to solidify friendships above all else.


In the same vein, a recent YouGov poll found that 8 out of 10 people would prefer the government to prioritise health and wellbeing over economic growth and GDP during the coronavirus. 6 in 10 wanted this to continue beyond. In some ways, slightly meaningless because one might argue economic growth is intertwined with wellbeing. Just as above though, this may not always be the case. I do wonder sometimes whether we are hurtling forwards inexorably in the interests of progress and expansion at the expense of so many things, not least the world around us. To halt this chain reaction is far from simple of course but there may be no better time than now to reassess things.


With the muddle the government have got themselves in this week over the new lockdown rules, I am not holding my breath. While I have actually been defending their overall plan (something that I never thought I would be doing) the evasive way it has been presented and the obvious and unsavoury motivation behind it (that of political damage control and self congratulation) has been pretty farcical. Looks like the lockdown is not as stringent as it was but it is not lifted. And we are to “stay alert”. To come up with that sort of nonsense slogan really is a symptom that comes from a lack of cohesion and leadership. Spin on care home deaths, overall cases and misuse of the R number (see my latest medical article) are just a few of their misdemeanours. There is no doubt that the government’s overall mismanagement of this crisis (and I repeat, I actually think their current measures are appropriate and require people to just use a bit of common sense and stop being so precious) has been nothing short of rubbish. That this is in any way surprising to people is the biggest surprise of all from my perspective!
Keir Starmer looks to me to be the future (and had done for a long time). Such a furore and a to do for so long before someone sensible like him comes along is the biggest tragedy. It’s just a shame we will have to wait a long time for him to get hold of the reigns.


Talking of length (apologies for the tenuous segue), my hair has not been cut for a couple of months now. Most obvious are the sides of my head which are expanding outwards at a fair rate. I look like Nicholas Cage. Beanie hats now make me look legitimately like a surfer dude (at least in my own head). My beard is another matter altogether. It is wild even despite my own feeble attempts at trimming it. I am one of those vain types that normally gets my hair cut every 3 weeks or so, so I have taken this as a sign and an opportunity to grow my hair out. I have tried it twice before in my life. Both times were pretty bad and I didn’t get past the mid length stage. (In fact my first attempt coincided with my “digestives and nutella” phase at uni and so, with the extra weight I was carrying at the time, I don’t think I have ever looked more physically repulsive. I am determined for things to be different this time – with the barbers closed, I really have no choice. So far I have resisted offers from several people who fancy themselves as stylists and so will have to just let things take their natural course. I think this is the right decision.

My Take on Music

“I see music as a catalyst for thought and emotion.”

 

“Music can change the world because it can change people” according to Bono. To be honest with you, I’m not really sure what he means by that. Indeed, I am not even sure whether the cheesy Irishman really knows what he means either. When it comes to music and what it represents, there are quotes galore from musicians and all sorts of other people on the subject of music and their interpretation of what it means to them. Lots of them refer to it being “life” and part of their “soul” and stuff like that.


Whatever anyone says, it is clear music is important. The recorded music industry was estimated to be worth $19.1 billion in 2018. That it is so popular is no coincidence. There is a difference between playing music and listening to it of course. Listening to it or playing it to yourself is enjoyable for reasons I will go on to explain. Performing it to an audience is altogether different, like opening up your mind and sharing an experience with other people. For those who are shy or lonely, this collectivism can be quite a release and encourage others to understand them a little. It is a way to gain recognition and to evoke a feeling of belonging to the performer. Very often, those listening will experience the same feeling and this may transcend the actual music itself. After all, most things are more enjoyable if experienced together.


It is the versatility of music – the ability to be both solitary and communal and to appeal to all types of human being – that is its main strength.


Despite all of this, I find myself listening to music less and less. A large part of it is related to how music is delivered in this day and age compared to when I was growing up. I used to love the excitement of getting a physical CD and listening to an album; fresh, organised and planned. I am of the cohort who insists on reading actual books rather than surrendering to kindles. Electronic versions whether it be music or books lose something in my opinion. Having the actual copy in your hands feels like the complete project rather than just a knock off version. There is also the draw of building a palpable collection that one can put on display and pick from at leisure rather than hiding away in a dusty hard drive somewhere.


Quite apart from the above, although streaming does still give one the option of listening to an album, it tends to be more a case of listening to individual songs these days. I have compiled some Spotify playlists to which I will add a song on occasion but find that playing these playlists over and over again gets a bit tired. New music is ever harder to come by and I find that relying on the algorithms Spotify uses is not quite the same as my discovery methods used in my youth. I can’t put my finger on why it doesn’t seem as good though.
Part of the problem, I suspect, is the sheer volume of music available now. On the face of it, one might see this as a good thing but when you factor in the quality on show, it becomes more clear.


Music as an entity is incredibly broad, so much so that it could be considered several different entities altogether rather than a single thing. I tend to think of it as similar to the concept of life – one form of music can be as different to another just as a single bacteria is to a blue whale. With a hugely varied spectrum of quality and an ever increasing ratio of good vs bad, the general pool of music available has been severely diluted.


Using the current ‘hear a good song and wack it onto a playlist when you hear it’ method of collecting music nowadays – by no means my favoured primary way to engage with music but all I am left with – the dilution of quality serves as a huge hindrance to this process.
We favour a song if it has the ability to enhance our current emotion, almost like a drug used to accompany everyday life. This could be joy, sadness, hopefulness, introspection, wonder, a feeling of courage and self-assuredness or any one of a multitude of other feelings. This is what composers are going for when they write (for the most part). Leo Tolstoy said that “music is the shorthand of emotion” and I would tend to agree. Imagine a scene from a film without music – far less intriguing or gripping for the most part. To that end, I see music as a catalyst for thought and emotion.


My thoughts on what makes a good song therefore starts with the above definition. Beyond this, things begin to get highly subjective and quite hard to put into words. For my part, a good song may fall into any genre and can be simple or complex. It will most likely have a unique and interesting and evocative melody alongside an intelligent rhythm. I also like a progression; a sense of building although, particularly for pop music, symmetry and appropriate resolution is a positive. Clever and well thought out use of time signature and pushed beats are features that draw me to a piece. I enjoy aggression and extravagance in my rock music and intricate and technically impressive instrumentation in jazz and pop. Orchestral music appeals to me if it is epic and bold rather than understated; think the Riders of Rohan theme from The Lord of the Rings as an example. Use of the right instrument is of interest to me as well but this will be dependent on the song; I don’t have a favourite instrument to listen to per se. Finally, nostalgia has a big part to play too – much like a smell, a song has the ability to activate memories in just the same way.


For me, lyrics are not that important. I do write music and I do take care to write lyrics of good quality that relate to a piece’s message but, ultimately, the music is far more important to me. I will rarely listen to the words of a song and I’m unsure of the lyrics to even some of my favourite songs.


Changing tack for a moment, there are certain things that will mark out poor quality music in my eyes. What does nothing for me is a song that lacks in detail. Much the same way as a childrens’ cartoon or a plastic toy will employ broad and simple colours and few points of real detail, so too will a generic song peddling the basics and nothing more. Unfortunately, there are a lot of these around, often relying upon a generic template; a cheap knock off of a once original idea – one known to sell. The fact that there are many of these around is likely due to several reasons. For a start, the market for children is a big one and so it follows that music appealing to teenagers and even younger exists and that it is fairly basic and uninspiring. Beyond that, there is a tendency now for the emphasis in music commercially to be more on style and image of the artist rather than the music itself. Many a song has been released by an artist well known for their influencing more than the quality of their music. It is likely that people will truly believe they like the music even if they wouldn’t think twice about it if released by a jobless drifter. There is a psychological premise behind this, the same one that leads people to rate the taste of whisky served in a crystal glass higher than the same one served in a plastic cup.


Unfortunately, for those interested in just the songs, this is not helpful and results in artists releasing material they would normally leave on the cutting room floor as they know it will sell anyway.


Thirdly, there is a category of people – and sometimes I feel this category is quite large – whose draw to music is so superficial, that they are drawn in by the trick of a catchy riff or a gimmicky chorus. They don’t have the ability to appreciate anything deeper. Before you say I am being a snob, let me explain. Some people really don’t have that ability. In the same way I can’t comprehend how someone can paint something from scratch, nor can others comprehend the sounds we hear and process them as such. Michael Jackson once said that “everything living has rhythm.” Clearly he never saw my Dad dance. Nor does everything have melody for that matter. My flat mate at university could not hold a note let alone a tune. Music is very much in the mind.


As such, there are a lot of people out there that are content with a broader collection of music, whether they like it or not , as they don’t necessarily comprehend how one can appreciate in any greater depth. Popularity drives industry and music is very much a capitalist endeavour. The onus is on selling music rather than producing something of quality and clearly it works.


Of note, there is another cohort at play here. The ‘music for quality’s sake not commercial potential’ crew, of which it would appear I am part of based on the above. That may be true but there is colossal potential amongst this group for pretension and can result in just as much dross; music to make a statement rather than actually being any good.
The sweet spot for a good song is, in my opinion, not commonly hit upon and is often not consistently hit upon by one person (hence the occasional but increasingly rare greats).


The upshot is, I find myself searching endlessly for good songs and this can be both time consuming and frustrating. When I do stumble across a decent one, it tends to be in isolation – there is no cohesion to the quality stuff, scattered as it is across genres and artists. What matters I suppose is that, as long as the mass of music out there (including the bargain bin dross) has an audience and evokes a strong emotion in people, it could be said to be valuable. My fear is that a lot of it is at least partially popular for the wrong reasons and moreover is detrimental to the production and showcasing of higher quality material.


For me, writing this has been quite cathartic and will no doubt redouble my efforts to find more music. There are phenomenal amounts out there. Just being out there in this day and age is not enough though. Finding a way to organise and collect my music to replicate the excitement and novelty experienced before the streaming age is the key. Whether that be vinyl or just being a bit more organised with my Spotify, I’m open to suggestions. If you have any tips or indeed any good new music, just drop me a message!

 

Healthcare After Covid-19

“Just as important as the government’s role in the NHS as it emerges from Covid-19 is the responsibility all of us have. We must shift our baselines back a hundred years – maybe more”


As a civilisation, humanity knows so much. To have in our arsenal an understanding of physics that includes relativity and all of its applications alongside our almost infinite artistic creativity is testament to our intelligence. These examples only scratch the surface of what we can do. So it is hugely humbling when we experience something like the Cvoid-19 pandemic.


As powerful as we are, we are still painfully fragile in the wider context – something we have a tendency to forget. It was not so long ago that we had to undergo operations without the luxury of anaesthetic and before antibiotics, we were faced with the rather uncivilised prospect of fighting infections using just our own immune systems.


Indeed, so uncivilised has the idea of being even slightly unwell become, that people now will seek medical help for a few days of cough and sore throat. The expectation for these worried well is that it is their right to expect an immediate cure. “Surely if we can do all of these marvellous things with technology, there is no disease we cannot sort out if we put our minds to it,” these people think. But these people are living in a different world, one of their own imagination. Others more prudent, sensible or experienced will realise that what we can do falls far short of this idealistic expectation.


We as a species go further. We harm ourselves willingly and then expect our medical professionals to pick up the pieces – even become angry when they can’t. Smoking, lack of exercise, poor diets – take your pick. That these things are bad for us there can be no question.


Of course one cannot wholly blame individuals for this. Capitalistic society is to blame here as much as anything. Profit and competition introduce temptation at the expense of welfare. I am not preaching socialism here – far from it. I simply point out that the drive for business to gain custom at any cost is a huge flaw in the system and in our health.


Whichever way one looks at it, we have become spoilt. Our perspectives on what we might expect from our healthcare have been shifted gradually but significantly over the last century. Only now are we being brought down to earth with a more humbling realisation; the thin facade of our supposedly advanced age has been withdrawn. There is even a name for this sort of thing – shifting baselines syndrome. It could be applied to many things. We have come to accept the nonsense and bile that comes from Donald Trump’s horrible little mouth as just the way it is these days. The baseline has shifted.


Just in the same way, many have been spoilt by the healthcare provision that they expect as a given. What we expect as a free benefit from our NHS nowadays (toe nail surgery, access to a GP to tell them about your cough, state of the art surgical procedures, cures for cancer and lifesaving emergency response within minutes) would have been the stuff of dreams for our ancestors. That the ever-expanding achievements of the last 50 years of medicine has caused the entire system to creek under its own weight is not surprising.


When I was younger, I reassured myself that if I or anyone I knew ever became unwell, it would be fine because there would always be someone somewhere that could cure whatever ailment had befallen them. My impression of medicine was that it was water-tight and so much more precise than the reality. A reality that slowly dawned on me during medical school. Much of it is guess work. Barely any treatment is 100% effective. What we don’t know far outweighs what we do know. The assumption is that there will always be a medicine to solve all problems. In a profession that revolves around trust in the doctor or nurse (a reassurance that can be therapeutic in itself) it is difficult sometimes for us to admit that we don’t have all the answers and can only do so much. Perhaps it is time we were more open with its limitations or else we make a rod for our own backs.
One might argue that what we now provide under its umbrella has gone far beyond the boundaries of what is sensible. To argue that we can effectively achieve 100% of what we aspire to medically is not possible. The issue is, the more superfluous and luxurious perks we add in, it edges out or at best blunts the core services that are most important.


At a time in which we are faced with something as dangerous and universal as Covid-19, we must heed a wake up call. The work the NHS is doing at the moment is what it is there for. Add to that health prevention, basic surgical treatments, mental health support, serious disease detection and treatment (including cancer), dignified end of life care, and social care.


Beyond the essentials, it is time for government to look at what the NHS really stands for and what it can really achieve. (Or preferably a cross party response to side step the political distractions). In an ideal world it would do everything to maximum efficiency. If a government wants to invest enough to make this possible, then great. The reality though means that the healthier a population is, the older it gets. Add to that the ever increasing scope of potential therapeutic options and one may argue that we could reach a point where a line must be drawn in how far we go in prolonging life. Should we become reliant of a system of health to such an extent (and perhaps we have already reached that point), the consequences of that system and it’s resources failing do not bear thinking about.


Governments need to look at this, decide where the line is drawn in what the NHS does and is expected to do. More importantly, they must be open about this. To back the NHS in a blind head long rush into the future, pledging vague sums of money that don’t make any sense to those in the know – none of this is helpful in any other way than to win elections. To acknowledge the need to be sensible about what is achievable and what is not seems difficult for politicians. Hence back room deals, rumours of privatisation etc. No one wants to see a privatised NHS. If the politicians are to be believed then they are included in this group, so why the cloak and daggers? The public deserve transparency and straight forward answers. Most understand that there is no definite right answer to a problem, even more so if it is explained to them. Without this, conspiracy and disquiet will breed.


Just as important as the government’s role in the NHS as it emerges from Covid-19 is the responsibility all of us have. We must shift our baselines back a hundred years – maybe more. This is urgent. Everyone must consider how we use our health service. That cough or rash that you might normally have seen your GP about – seems to have gone now doesn’t it?! That lack of exercise, my poor diet, that smoking habit – I can do something about that myself. No one else can help and we shouldn’t have to hold your hand. (Of course we do this and will continue to do so). Self care has been important during this lockdown. And yet, it shouldn’t be any more so now than any other time.


The problems with the health care system are clear. We all know about them. Covid-19 has affected us all and is scary. But perhaps it is the wakeup call that we all need.

Musings in Quarantine

With such nice weather, I hope you’re all staying inside! Quarantine is a funny old thing and through something like this we get to see both the best and worst of humanity. (It’s just unfortunate that, in a situation such as this, we are only as good as the worst of us). It’s gearing up to be a rocky few weeks with the day job so it’s nice to catch up with this sort of stuff in the downtime. 

So, while the covidiots rush out to their barbecues, the sensible people stay indoors and the Americans head out to buy loads of guns, I thought I’d update on the book. 

A couple of rejections thus far but most agents I have carefully selected have not yet got back. It’s worth saying that, having researched exactly what getting an agent represents to a fairly extensive degree, I have been selective in who I have gone for. It’s a given that I am looking for agents who have interests in books such as mine, but I am also going for those with non-fiction interests as well, not least because I have ambition to write in both arenas. Of course, when someone is recommended to you, that’s even better.

But here’s the thing. I don’t know if anyone else does the same (and even if they don’t admit it, I suspect they do) but I have been placing a significant emphasis on selecting those with whom I think I would work best based on how they look in their photographs. Where I can find interviews with them, even better. Call me superficial but I feel like I am a fairly good judge of character and so can usually gain a good idea of whether I would click with someone based on their appearance alone. 

They say don’t judge a book by it’s cover, but I’ve never heard anyone say that about agents so I’m going with it. I only hope they will adopt a similar approach when assessing my material. The whole process feels a bit like online dating and if history has taught me anything, it’s that I’m not very good at online dating. Time will tell. 

 

 

 

 

The birth of a new viral lexicon

All of this inevitably got me thinking about other words that, quite frankly, we should all be trying to create as a result of this crisis – or corisis

By now we are accustomed to hearing new words and phrases hitherto unheard of even a short while before. Of course the youth have almost an entire language to themselves. (This is quite a painful admission as I consider myself to be youthful still).

But in the age of Brexit, we as a species have begun to tinker with the English language in ever more ingenius ways. At present, there are 171,476 words in the Oxford Enlgish dictionary. There are many more unofficial ones in circulation, should you be streetwise enough to be using them. 

In 2019 there were 650 new words added to that number including whatevs, chillax, Jedi (which I think is cool and I’m surprsied it took this long) and sumfin (which is think is kind of mental).

Flashforward to now and we are in the midst of a global pandemic. It is bad and is only going to get worse so I wanted to focus on something positive. To that end, the fact that ‘covidiot‘ is now trending on twitter has brought a refreshing twist on humanity’s inherent stupidity. 

The word refers to those special individuals who rush out to panic buy toilet roll and pasta or those who think social distancing just isn’t for them. 

It’s not the only new word I’ve heard. Caremongering, the act of caring for those most vulnerable and encouraging others to do so, seems to be taking hold across the pond. It seems to have emerged from Canada which makes sense because – well, Canada. 

Presenteesim is the word for NHS workers who will lean towards going to work even if they are unwell which, in the current situation is not good. Under normal circumstances, I too have experienced this phenomenon, having crawled into work more than once feeling like the inside of John Mccririck’s underpants, only to be met by a smiling patient telling me they have had a cough for a few days. 

One of my favourites is the word for the cohort of babies born as a result of everyone being cooped up in isolation over the next few months. Coronials.

All of this inevitably got me thinking about other words that, quite frankly, we should all be trying to create as a result of this crisis – or corisis. Here are some of the best ones so far…

Quaranteens – The teenagers who are now home for the forseeable future since the schools closed, for which their parents are – I’m sure – ecstatic. 

Coronference call – As more and more of us begin to work from home, these are the ideal way to observe the social distancing measures while maintaining business efficiency. 

Whatsapp Thumb –  With friendship groups torn apart by the isolation, Whatsapp groups have gone wild. The chat within previously dormant groups has been going through the roof. Make sure you take precautions and limit your use lest you experience this painful condition. 

Covexit – The much sought after and mythical end to this epidemic. Who knows when we can reach it?

Recovid – My personal favourite here. With many people having already recovid from the disease, here’s hoping that many more will do the same. 

So there you have it. I’m sure there are plenty more of these so your suggestions are most welcome. Perhaps, by the time the next pandemic comes around (my money is on peronivirus) we may have a completely new set of vocabularly at the ready. 

WJ