Lockdown Two.

Hi Emma,

I’m sorry if this email reads as though I’m writing too fast but I’ve just drunk three Espressos on the trot and I’m feeling a bit manic.

Gran had a double shot herself, which was a mistake really as she’s hyper enough without stimulants. She calls them Expressos although she knows perfectly well what they are really are. She does it just to annoy Dad who always bites, and shouts, ‘IT’S ESPRESSO YOU STUPID BINT!’ Gran, knowing she’s wound him up again, just sits and sniggers to herself for a full minute before letting out a quiet, self-satisfied, ‘aaaah.’

I’ll tell you what, Emma, this Lockdown Two is going to be a nightmare. Can you imagine living with this pair for a month with no way of escape? I thought Lockdown One was bad enough but the sequel is far worse and we’re only two days in. If it was a film, they would sack the director and the actors would never work again. And I’ll tell you what. If I hear that phrase, déjà vu, all over again once more, I’ll probably hit someone, over and over and over, again. Why do people laugh when someone says it on the TV? You know me, Em, I’m not thick, am I? and I get jokes… mostly… some of the time, but I just don’t get that one at all. I know you’ve explained t to me a few times already, but I think you’re going to have to explain it to me all over again, one more time.

I hope the TV is going to be better than they have been recently. All those virtual shows did my head in. It’s really not the same without a live audience. They’re doing I’m a Celebrity in Wales. Wales for Christ’s sake! Where are they going to find a Witchetty grub in Swansea?

I was really looking forward to Strictly this year but it was unwatchable. Without the audience the routines looked like the dancers were having their final practice before the crowd turned up, there must be more atmosphere on Pluto. The BGT final really sucked. How did that bloke who sang wearing just his underpants with a ferret stuffed down them, ever make it through the heats? Gran had been dozing and woke up just as he started his act, so she missed the introduction where Ant and Dec explained about the ferret. Anyway, when he started singing, I’m in the mood for love, and the wriggling started in his Y-fronts, she was transfixed. I have to admit, I did start feeling a little bit fruity myself. It really did look like his willy was moving about. Dad said it was the most disgusting thing he’d seen in his life and he was going to complain to OFCOM, the TV regulator. Gran told him not to bother because they’d just bin it as a letter sent in by a nutter. When Dad asked why, she told him she’d been writing in, using his name and address, at least a dozen times a week to complain about the left-wing bias at the BBC. She had complained about everything from Panorama to Homes under the hammer and Bargain Hunt apparently. Dad said he wondered why he had received a letter from the Home Office threatening legal action if he made one more death threat against, Laura Kuenssberg.

Dad is missing the pub already. He’s worried that his second home, the Dog and Duck, will close permanently. He was so worried about it during Lockdown One, that he signed up to enjoy a ‘virtual pint,’ at the pub. Have you seen the video on You Tube? The focus of the film is a full pint of bitter on a bar table. All of a sudden, a hand picks it up and you hear a slurping noise, then the pint is put back with about two inches of it gone. Every couple of minutes the same thing happens until the pint pot is empty, then the video starts again. Dad was paying the landlord at the virtual pub, a tenner a day to take part, a quarter of the money went to his local to help it along. He used to sit at the dining table, staring at his computer screen for hours. One night, he got up after seven virtual pints, staggered across the room like he was pissed, and threw up on the kitchen floor. Gran complained to the virtual landlord and Dad was banned for a month.

I’ll tell you what the worst thing about this Covid thingy is. The bloody daily press conferences with those two… what are they called? Sage and Onion experts… something like that. I hope they don’t have them every afternoon this time round. They were so depressing.

Gran used to shout at the TV when they were on, yelling that we may as well have voted Jeremy Corbyn in, because Bojo is spending her future pension income like water. She reckons he was named Boris because he’s Russian, and if he’s Russian he must be an undercover, scheming, low-life, Commie, mole. Dad says he’s not a Commie, he’s a Fascist and if the election hadn’t been rigged, Jezza would be PM, spending an extra trillion or two so that that everyone could have free internet, luxury houses, free university free weekly shopping at Waitrose, and free travel. Gran said that Boris had given enough money away to sink the country under the weight of all the banknotes and what use was free travel if you can’t go out anyway?

Dad calls the two experts who appear with Boris, Dumb and Dumber, or the Brother’s Grim, (I don’t get that one,) Gran calls them Burke and Hare. I had no idea who Burke and Hare were, so I Googled them. Apparently back in the Dark Ages of Victorian times, they were a pair of body snatching, grave robbers. Gran said that they’re still at it, which is why they keep the death rate from Covid deliberately high.

Last week the terrible trio came back for a repeat series. Dad said it was déjà vu all over again and laughed. I screamed at him because I still didn’t get the joke. Mum told me not to worry about it and Dad was just making out he was clever, when in reality, got it from this morning’s Daily Mirror headline.

I think the government are using these press conferences to hypnotise the entire country. It begins with Mr Whatnot, showing us a complicated graph with lots of meaningless lines on it, probably drawn by his six-year-old son, while he drones on about R numbers. That’s another thing I’ve never understood, Em, because I can’t think of any numbers that start with an R. Lots of them start with a T, and lots more with an S or an F. I think the R thing is the trigger for the mass hypnotism to start because by the time you get to the third slide you’ve gone under. Last Monday, I succumbed, closed my eyes and came round three hours later, and there was still a bloody graph on the screen. Dad, Gran and Mum were obviously still under the influence, and were staring, goggle-eyed at the TV. I haven’t seen Dad in that state since the mass orgy scene from Game of Thrones was on. Anyway, I clapped my hands together really loud and they suddenly continued with the conversation they had been having, all those hours and graphs ago. The next thing you know, the hypnotism experiment was over and Boris was telling every bugger to wash their hands and stay safe. I think that was the subliminal message for the country to come out of its hypnotic state, because the TV station magically returned to its normal programming with the BBC showing a repeat of a Two Ronnies show, that was first screened in eighteen-thirty-six.

I’m still researching these bubble thingies by the way, Em. You live in a single household, don’t you? Well, you’re not married to your fellah, so in theory that should count. Do you think I could pretend that you are my support bubble? I could borrow Gran’s Zimmer to make it look like I’m a bit dodgy on my feet. I’ll have to be careful though and watch out for PC Dennis. Last lockdown I sneaked out for a walk because Dad and Gran were doing my head in and he stopped me at the top of the street. It’s a good job it was hot and I was wearing that really low top and short skirt because he gave me a ticket that would have meant a fifty quid fine had he made it out to me, instead of writing. OMG NICE TITS! in the address part of the form.

Right, I’m off now Emma. Have a think about the bubble thing, we could get hypnotised together next week. As long as it’s not like the time we saw that Hypno Rama, act at Norks Night Club. Good God, that was hilarious wasn’t it? He had Roger the Dodger, Craftworthy running around stage all night acting like a chicken, but the best bit was when he got that tart, Olivia, to have virtual sex with a pensioner. He must have been about ninety. The look on his face when she whipped her top off and pushed his head into her boobs. It’s a good job there was a defibrillator machine behind the bar or he’d have been a goner.

Right, that’s it for now, Emma. I’m going to see what’s trending on Twitter. I hope it’s not still that US election. My laptop screen will be full of that bloody déjà vu joke all over again.

Stay safe

Tracy