Friday 20th March 2020
Dear Diary,
Just thought I’d drop in to pen a few words before you go down with CV and I have to approach you wearing a hazmat suit and breathing mask, and all (allegedly) because some peasant in the Far East fancied a bat butty for lunch. I don’t mean to be flippant, but if we can’t embrace humour at a time like this then we’ll go down faster than ever. No one knows for sure where the evil virus originated. Typically it’s those at the poor end of the social spectrum who get the blame. It might have crawled from a crevice in Putin’s arsehole or evolved from the opulent faeces of the super rich. No one knows. Blame is pointless. All that matters now is trying to defeat it.
There’s no doubt these are scary times. It’s like living in an episode of Dad’s Army with half of us shouting ‘don’t panic’ and the other half declaring we’re all doomed.
Like everyone else on the planet I want to get through this pandemic intact with the people I love and care about. The three of us are currently in self-isolation because Dick developed a cough and then a temperature on Tuesday. He reckons it’s just a cold, but seeing as there are no tests available for NHS workers, let alone Joe Public, we have to err on the side of caution for everyone’s sake. Our bumbling leaders have, in my opinion, cocked up the whole testing thing and it will cost this country dear. Test, test, test again, leave the fucking thing no place to hide.
I’m keeping a close eye on Dick, while spraying him regularly with a strong solution of Zoflora disinfectant from a plant spray bottle. He doesn’t like it, but concedes he smells nice. As you know, I’m a house-proud houseboy at the best of times, but am currently cleaning house like a ninja on anabolic steroids. The bathrooms reek of Domestos. We’re more likely to die from bleach fumes than CV. My main worry is running out of toilet paper. Three blokes incarcerated in a house devoid of bog rolls is a terrifying prospect. The quasi mansion will have to be cordoned off for the public safety.
In one respect we are lucky. We have the space to avoid each other during our self imposed exile from society. It doesn’t stop the men folk from getting on my tits, on me getting on theirs, but it does reduce the likelihood of snarling one another to death.
Joking aside, take care, people. Look after yourselves and each other. I wish you all well. Don’t stockpile, keep your distance, keep washing those hands, and stay calm. Hysteria isn’t for general use. It has to be left to the experts, such as myself, who have access to stringent means of control. (Daddy power in other words.)
May
Dear Diary,
Just thought I’d drop in to pen a few words before you go down with CV and I have to approach you wearing a hazmat suit and breathing mask, and all (allegedly) because some peasant in the Far East fancied a bat butty for lunch. I don’t mean to be flippant, but if we can’t embrace humour at a time like this then we’ll go down faster than ever. No one knows for sure where the evil virus originated. Typically it’s those at the poor end of the social spectrum who get the blame. It might have crawled from a crevice in Putin’s arsehole or evolved from the opulent faeces of the super rich. No one knows. Blame is pointless. All that matters now is trying to defeat it.
There’s no doubt these are scary times. It’s like living in an episode of Dad’s Army with half of us shouting ‘don’t panic’ and the other half declaring we’re all doomed.
Like everyone else on the planet I want to get through this pandemic intact with the people I love and care about. The three of us are currently in self-isolation because Dick developed a cough and then a temperature on Tuesday. He reckons it’s just a cold, but seeing as there are no tests available for NHS workers, let alone Joe Public, we have to err on the side of caution for everyone’s sake. Our bumbling leaders have, in my opinion, cocked up the whole testing thing and it will cost this country dear. Test, test, test again, leave the fucking thing no place to hide.
I’m keeping a close eye on Dick, while spraying him regularly with a strong solution of Zoflora disinfectant from a plant spray bottle. He doesn’t like it, but concedes he smells nice. As you know, I’m a house-proud houseboy at the best of times, but am currently cleaning house like a ninja on anabolic steroids. The bathrooms reek of Domestos. We’re more likely to die from bleach fumes than CV. My main worry is running out of toilet paper. Three blokes incarcerated in a house devoid of bog rolls is a terrifying prospect. The quasi mansion will have to be cordoned off for the public safety.
In one respect we are lucky. We have the space to avoid each other during our self imposed exile from society. It doesn’t stop the men folk from getting on my tits, on me getting on theirs, but it does reduce the likelihood of snarling one another to death.
Joking aside, take care, people. Look after yourselves and each other. I wish you all well. Don’t stockpile, keep your distance, keep washing those hands, and stay calm. Hysteria isn’t for general use. It has to be left to the experts, such as myself, who have access to stringent means of control. (Daddy power in other words.)
Ciao for now.
Saturday 28th March 2020
Dear Diary,
Just nipping in for a small chunter. Don’t worry, I’m wearing a facemask and keeping the requisite two-metre distance. Thankfully I have long arms and can still reach the keyboard.
Dick is much better. He insists it was just a cold he had. I wish we had some way of knowing for sure. We are still keeping our distance from the world, as well as each other insofar as we can, which I find a great strain. We’re not sharing the same bed at the moment. So far, neither Shane nor I have succumbed to sniffles so maybe distancing does help in some measure. I’m worried about the men folk contracting the virus. After all, they’re not getting any younger. They’re worried about me getting it, fearing it will trigger a major brain fizz. Stress all round in other words.
There’s a saying that goes: it was the last straw that broke the camel’s back. In my case, on Friday gone, it was a donkey that broke the houseboy’s back.
Barely a week into the UK lockdown and tempers are fraying within the sacred walls of the quasi mansion. I say tempers. What I actually mean is my temper. I’m simply not built for stress. Restrictions on daily activity and connectivity, difficulty securing a slot for online food delivery anytime in the foreseeable future, inability to find food that IS fucking available once you have secured a slot, and not seeing the people I care about, like Eileen over the road. None of these things sit well on the shoulders of a temperamentally challenged houseboy.
The last straw was the donkey, or rather donkeys. Yesterday afternoon I walked into the lounge, intending to ask the men folk if they fancied a cuppa. They had the telly on, which is another thing getting on my tits at the mo, non-stop frigging telly. The place was awash with their laptops and big feet, while they spread themselves around, flattening all the sofa and chair cushions. Anyway, like I said, I walked into the lounge to offer tea - just in time to see an ad asking for donations to help rescue abused donkeys. It was hideous. Those poor, poor creatures, tortured, abused, starved and beaten. The horrific images were too distressing. I skipped tea in favour of total meltdown.
The men folk almost shit themselves as I literally exploded with rage, spraying expletives and curses around the room like machine gun bullets before breaking into frenzied sobs. I’m not proud of my loss of control. It was just one stress too many in a week of horrible news and anxiety provoking world events. I can’t bear the way some people abuse animals. It makes me want to hunt the bastards down and kill them, after attacking them with a stick and loading a ton of stuff on their backs to see how they fucking like it.
Dick and Shane just about clanged heads as they dived for the remote to turn the telly off. Jesus, they looked shaken. Dick’s pupils were so dilated he looked like he’d been at the magic mushrooms. Poor bugger. He had to have a nip of brandy to calm his nerves. Life is stressful enough without tossing an exploding houseboy into the mix.
Shane had stern words, threatening to confine me to the den for the duration if I didn’t get a grip and calm down. Social distancing regs might have had something to do with him not walloping his hand across my arse, but even so, it could have been worse. He was pretty chilled (once his heart rate normalised) considering I’d taken a year off his life with my hysterical outburst. Bear in mind he has a hell of a lot on his plate with regard to work and the current shut down of business.
On the upside, Dick donated to the donkey charity. While his wallet was open I insisted he also donate to the RSPCA as well as a local food bank charity. Charities of every kind need all the help they can get in these troubled times.
Well, that’s my chunter over and done with. I’ll slope off and find something constructive to do, such as breaking out the disinfectant for the umpteenth time. I’m not having some evil virus lurking on my hard surfaces ta very much, or any surface. I even spray the post as soon as it drops through the letterbox. It ruins the envelopes, but at least it’s safe to handle.
Hunker down and stay safe, peeps, and wash your hands after reading this. You can’t be too careful in these pandemic days.
Last but not least. Heartfelt gratitude and thanks to all in the front line when it comes to fighting this virus. Medics, nurses, carers, shop workers, food producers, volunteers, and all those striving to keep society functioning. I salute you.
Dear Diary,
Just nipping in for a small chunter. Don’t worry, I’m wearing a facemask and keeping the requisite two-metre distance. Thankfully I have long arms and can still reach the keyboard.
Dick is much better. He insists it was just a cold he had. I wish we had some way of knowing for sure. We are still keeping our distance from the world, as well as each other insofar as we can, which I find a great strain. We’re not sharing the same bed at the moment. So far, neither Shane nor I have succumbed to sniffles so maybe distancing does help in some measure. I’m worried about the men folk contracting the virus. After all, they’re not getting any younger. They’re worried about me getting it, fearing it will trigger a major brain fizz. Stress all round in other words.
There’s a saying that goes: it was the last straw that broke the camel’s back. In my case, on Friday gone, it was a donkey that broke the houseboy’s back.
Barely a week into the UK lockdown and tempers are fraying within the sacred walls of the quasi mansion. I say tempers. What I actually mean is my temper. I’m simply not built for stress. Restrictions on daily activity and connectivity, difficulty securing a slot for online food delivery anytime in the foreseeable future, inability to find food that IS fucking available once you have secured a slot, and not seeing the people I care about, like Eileen over the road. None of these things sit well on the shoulders of a temperamentally challenged houseboy.
The last straw was the donkey, or rather donkeys. Yesterday afternoon I walked into the lounge, intending to ask the men folk if they fancied a cuppa. They had the telly on, which is another thing getting on my tits at the mo, non-stop frigging telly. The place was awash with their laptops and big feet, while they spread themselves around, flattening all the sofa and chair cushions. Anyway, like I said, I walked into the lounge to offer tea - just in time to see an ad asking for donations to help rescue abused donkeys. It was hideous. Those poor, poor creatures, tortured, abused, starved and beaten. The horrific images were too distressing. I skipped tea in favour of total meltdown.
The men folk almost shit themselves as I literally exploded with rage, spraying expletives and curses around the room like machine gun bullets before breaking into frenzied sobs. I’m not proud of my loss of control. It was just one stress too many in a week of horrible news and anxiety provoking world events. I can’t bear the way some people abuse animals. It makes me want to hunt the bastards down and kill them, after attacking them with a stick and loading a ton of stuff on their backs to see how they fucking like it.
Dick and Shane just about clanged heads as they dived for the remote to turn the telly off. Jesus, they looked shaken. Dick’s pupils were so dilated he looked like he’d been at the magic mushrooms. Poor bugger. He had to have a nip of brandy to calm his nerves. Life is stressful enough without tossing an exploding houseboy into the mix.
Shane had stern words, threatening to confine me to the den for the duration if I didn’t get a grip and calm down. Social distancing regs might have had something to do with him not walloping his hand across my arse, but even so, it could have been worse. He was pretty chilled (once his heart rate normalised) considering I’d taken a year off his life with my hysterical outburst. Bear in mind he has a hell of a lot on his plate with regard to work and the current shut down of business.
On the upside, Dick donated to the donkey charity. While his wallet was open I insisted he also donate to the RSPCA as well as a local food bank charity. Charities of every kind need all the help they can get in these troubled times.
Well, that’s my chunter over and done with. I’ll slope off and find something constructive to do, such as breaking out the disinfectant for the umpteenth time. I’m not having some evil virus lurking on my hard surfaces ta very much, or any surface. I even spray the post as soon as it drops through the letterbox. It ruins the envelopes, but at least it’s safe to handle.
Hunker down and stay safe, peeps, and wash your hands after reading this. You can’t be too careful in these pandemic days.
Last but not least. Heartfelt gratitude and thanks to all in the front line when it comes to fighting this virus. Medics, nurses, carers, shop workers, food producers, volunteers, and all those striving to keep society functioning. I salute you.