How can I not comment on the brilliance of the Dutch and UK government’s strides against a tiny little virus that’s causing more mayhem than Theresa May and David Cameron ever dreamed of; and Donald Trump’s infection with a mutant coronavirus that makes you look and feel 20 years younger without the need to quarantine.
Dutch prime minister Mark Rutte really got things going and sent the virus a stark reminder that its days are numbered (about 3000 seems a good estimate). Face masks are not yet mandatory in public places, but will be in a few weeks. Just time enough for the second wave to really get out of control. But how can the Dutch lose the battle against a virus when selling alcohol is banned after 8.00 pm? Yes, Rutte has got the better of Dutch youths who, knowing that the alcohol shelves will be a no-go zone after 8.00, will be put off buying a couple of heavily laden beer crates, at 7.59. And what about when winter time sets in? “Hey, come on mate, this time yesterday wasn’t this time at all, and it was perfectly legal to get sloshed. Now, I’m an enemy to the nation.” Well, it serves the yobbos right, they should have put their watches an hour back, not half a day. They shouldn’t have gone to Barcelona last summer. They, and no one else, are responsible for the second wave. No one else, right?
For Boris Johnson, Corona rhymes with Canada. You know, that Canada +++ deal he’s going to get with the EU before you’ve had time to pull a Christmas cracker. Over by Christmas, the corona virus will have been tamed once and for all. Dividing the kingdom into three “levels of scarediness.” Are you just scared (Level One), very scared (Level Two), or very-very scared (Level Three). All very nice because the level of lockdown will be directly proportional to your level of scarediness. But again, it’s all about numbers and what they mean. In the same way that Dutch youths buying a pint at 7.59 don’t contribute to the spread of the virus like the ones bying a Tequilla Sunrise at 8.01, how are the number of infections going to define your levels? “Sorry mate, your street has 31 cases, my street has 28. I’m scared, but nothing compared to you. I can see it in your eyes – you are very-very scared. Go to your room and I’ll deliver you your cheese and biscuits through the window.”
Donald Trump, the president who didn’t believe in the virus anyway, is the proof that there is life after corona, and plenty of it. Could this happen to you? In on a Friday, just in time for a long weekend at your empty hospital, you come out on the Monday, feeling twenty years younger. Now, what did he have that my grandma who died on Ward 21 at Clapham General, and my aunt who passed away at “The Reaper’s Home For The Very Old” in Surrey, didn’t? A helicopter to his private IC unit, dexamethasone, remdesivir, monoclonal antibodies, vitamin D, famotidine, and melatonin. Not forgetting 12 highly skilled doctors, 125 nurses and a year’s supply of oxygen.
The other explanation for Donald Trump’s remarkable illness (apart from fake illness theories) is that he was infected with a mutant virus that literally takes years of your life. If that’s the case, to hell with the fight against a virus that’s really here to help us stay young. I’m throwing away my face masks, converting the 1,5 meter social distance into a 5 cm hug, and embracing the world as it is. Or should that be “as it was” 20 years ago?