Gas Giants, Brexit, Mutant Viruses and Christmas 2020

It’s the day after Boxing Day. The month since I last wrote has whizzed by and the world again seems to have been tipped on its head. I suppose that’s one thing you can say for sure about 2020 – there’s never been a slow news day.

At the end of the last lockdown the tier system of restrictions was restructured and strengthened. In Manchester, which remained in tier 3, pubs and restaurants didn’t reopen but some shops did. Rules about Christmas gatherings were announced and as expected they were to keep it low key. It was all a bit gloomy.

Then followed the news that the MHRA had approved a Covid 19 vaccine for use in the UK which was a massive breakthrough. Within a matter of days the first person in the world received that vaccine in Coventry, on 8th December, and to date around 800,000 people have been inoculated. I suspect that because of my age and good health I’ll be quite low down the list and may get my chance in late summer.

As we’ve come to expect from 2020, with the good news comes the bad. Reports of a significant mutation in the virus were hot on the heels of the vaccine. It appears to have originated in Kent and infection numbers in the SouthEast began rocketing. The new variant which was identified in September and sequenced in October, transmits faster and is more infectious than its predecessor. The increasing numbers prompted the Government to put London and a chunk of the SouthEast into a new Tier 4 with almost immediate effect. Christmas plans were scuppered for millions and the capital essentially shut down, but not before thousands of residents, keen to get to their families for Christmas, rammed train stations and a mini exodus out of town took place on cramped trains.

Countries around Europe, fearful that the new strain might land there, immediately banned flights and ships from the UK. Most noticeably France, simply because so many cross border goods go through Dover and Calais. The channel tunnel was closed and Dover port became a car park with hundreds of drivers stranded there over Christmas. I read reports of locals lowering food packages down to them from motorway bridges and skirmishes with police as drivers who wanted to be home for Christmas became increasingly frustrated. I suppose the travel restrictions were to be expected but I suspect the mutant virus (as the papers refer to it) is already on the continent given that it was seen so many weeks ago and it’s been recognised in Brazil too. On top of that, a third strain has been noted in South Africa leading to further flights being grounded from that country.

There have been other UK restriction changes in different parts of the country as of Boxing day, though Manchester remains frozen in suspended animation as it has been for months. Infection rates across all ten boroughs have begun to creep up again, but not at the same rate as they have in the SouthEast. In fact rates seem to be on the increase across Europe generally as well as in parts of Asia and it feels like there’s a race between Covid and the vaccine. A second vaccine, developed at Oxford University and with AstraZeneca is due for approval imminently and as it’s easier to handle and transport than the Pfizer vaccine it’s hoped that the programme will speed up.

In the meantime Christmas has come and gone. For many it’s understandably been a quieter, pared back affair, though the Government did authorise mixing of households for those not in Tier 4. We had Chris’s folks round, as we have done many times before, so it didn’t feel all that different. 

Outside of the pandemic – for there is still a world out there – and just in time, a Brexit deal has finally been agreed. Boris Johnson addressed the UK on Christmas Eve to tell us that trade deals have been agreed alongside fishing rights, a move away from the European Court of Justice, agreements on data security, policing and travel. Naturally there is still a split between those who voted to remain in the EU saying we’re in a worse position than we were before and those who voted to leave saying we now have the freedom to chart our own course. Time will tell who is right though I reckon it will more than likely be a mix of the two. I for one am optimistic about the future – let’s see what happens eh?

And in celestial news, on 21st December, the winter solstice, Jupiter and Saturn, two of the solar system’s gas giants, were in alignment with the earth in what is known as the Great Conjunction. Their positions, so close to each other in our skies, made them look like one bright body and while this happens about every twenty years it seems they were closer than they have been for some for eight centuries. Typically it was cloudy in Manchester so we didn’t see a damn thing.

New York City, 1999

"Are you okay?"

Chris was sitting bolt upright, in the hotel bed opposite, counting on his fingers.

"I've been up for ages."

"How come?"

"I'm trying to work out how we leave Miami today, fly to New York, then take an eight hour flight to Manchester and arrive home yesterday. What time zone are we in again?"

I frowned in concentration, counted on my fingers then replied, "Oh shit Chris. I think we might have missed our flight."

We didn't know it then but missing our flight back to the UK was the least of our worries.

The holiday had started with mixed fortunes. Two days before flying to New York, Chris had been made redundant and relieved of his duties. His boss had taken the decision to remove all the heads of music, of which Chris was one, from across the group and replace them with his boyfriend, who despite him having no discernible experience in the radio industry, he felt was well suited to take a senior group position. 

"It's a business decision," he'd said to Chris, his knee visibly shaking under the desk as he delivered the news. Of course it was. 

As I was heading into work that lunchtime, to wrap things up ahead of our holiday, Chris was leaving the building with a box of belongings . Until that day, we had worked at the same radio station, Chris was head of music, I was head of research. 

This wasn't going to be awkward at all, my partner of three years losing his job, in a grand example of nepotism, and me continuing to be employed by the company with all the expectations of integrity and loyalty that go with it. I could continue to be professional – if I wanted to – as it turned out, I didn’t.

Cut to Manchester Airport – 21st April 1999 – check in. A few weeks earlier someone had suggested a surefire way of getting an upgrade on a flight so we'd arrived smartly dressed, looking respectable, script learned. Chris's opening line, as he passed his paperwork to the woman at the Continental Airlines desk was well rehearsed.

"Good morning fine lady," he didn't really say fine lady, but it sounded like he should. "If you're considering upgrading anyone today we'd be very happy to accept."

We both grinned inanely at the woman, our overly enthusiastic smiles laced with looks of desperate pleading.

"You what?" She didn't even look up at us.

Chris cleared his throat and enunciated, slowly, "If you're considering upgrading anyone today we'd be very happy to accept."

"Sorry love, no upgrades today. Passports please," she sucked her teeth and finally made eye contact.

We curled our lips at each other and shrugged, the realisation dawning that we'd have to sit on a plane in smart but uncomfortable clothes for eight hours until we landed at Newark.

Checked in and luggage deposited we headed for security and the shops. This being 1999, and pre-9-11, security meant having your suitcase x-rayed, walking through a metal detector arch and, if you were lucky, getting a quick pat-down from a security guard a la Diana Ross. Even then, Ms Ross's life altering ordeal at Heathrow was nearly six months in the future. It wasn't the heyday of flying by any means but it was far easier than it is today.

Scanned, beeped and well patted, we headed for Duty Free, that esteemed institution that in April 1999 had a mere two months lifespan remaining and was gasping for dear life on the last of the cheap fags while swigging one last bottle of cut price brandy.

Chris gets carried away at airports; he sees an opportunity to stock up on perfume and voddy and takes it. Unlike many Brits he doesn't care for an early morning pint and has no interest in browsing reading material for the flight, no, he wants to shop till he drops, walking out laden with the latest goodies from Tom Ford or Calvin Klein, and so a mammoth expedition got underway. 

Chris sees airport shopping as a challenge to get as much out of the staff as he possibly can, whether that be discounts or free samples. I've seen him get on a plane with a Givenchy sports bag containing not only his shopping but hundreds of tiny packets of testers, a pair of socks, a travel blanket, flip flops and bottles of branded mineral water before now. 

While eschewing the aforementioned pint, Chris, when on his tour of duty (free) is always sure to take advantage of the alcohol tasting stands. It doesn't matter what time of day it is, if there's a thimble of whiskey or a snifter of gin going free, he's having it. He has the routine down to a fine art. Spying his prey from a distance he casually approaches, as if he's not onto a sure thing, and begins his patter:

"May I try some?"

"Of course, would you like to try the standard, the lemon or the summer berries?"

"Lemon please."

Chris sips the illicit nectar, it hits the spot, you can tell by the glimmer in his eye.

"Richard! Come and try this."

I traipse over, sullen.

"Hello," I offer the assistant a knowing shrug. "Thank you, I'll try the lemon too."

"Ooh, this is delicious. I can see us having this before a dinner party," Chris will coo.

"Urgh," is my usual grunted response. "Are we done?"

"I might just try..." he turns to the assistant. "What's the summer berries one like?"

"Fruity. Would you like to try some?"

"Is that okay?" Chris won't be seen asking for more booze at 7am but if he's offered it, that's a different matter altogether

This merry dance continues until Chris has tried everything on the stand at which point he'll ask in elevated tones, "And where can I buy this marvellous product fine sir?" (Again, the ‘fine sir’ is more of an attitude than a quote.)

The assistant will point to the large display of bottles next to him, Chris will feign surprise then in a stage voice highlight to me what a reasonable price it is. Grabbing one and sticking it in his drag-behind-you shopping basket, he'll thank the member of staff profusely and go on about his business. 

Within three minutes of leaving the free drinks behind, the bottle of fancy booze will be stuffed in amongst some overpriced teddy bears or abandoned with the sunglasses, and replaced with a litre of the standard brand at half the price. I've watched these interactions at airports around the world and it never changes.

On the morning in question we were just coming out of the shop, stinking to high heaven from the concoction of perfumes we've tried on with the false pretence of buying them, with our shopping in hand, when we heard our names being announced on the tannoy.

If you're at an airport and you hear your names being called then you know something is wrong. What had happened? Had we inadvertently stolen something? Had the machetes and bomb blueprints in our suitcases finally been discovered? Had the authorities been alerted to the child trafficking? No – we were late for the aeroplane.

"Will passengers Buckley and Douglas please make their way to gate 22 for boarding. This is your final call, the gate is closing."

In unison, "Shit!" 

We legged it for the gate. We ran along the concourse, doing double speed on the moving walkways, practically jumped down a set of steps, past the loos which Chris considered stopping at before I yelled at him, then up another lot of stairs and finally arrived at gate 22.

"We're here!" I wheezed. "Let us on! Please!"

"You're lucky. We were about to take your luggage off." They weren't, airline staff are liars, it's all a power trip.

"Here! TAke them!" I thrust our boarding cards into the woman's hand.

She looked at the cardboard tickets, then at a clipboard next to her, then back at us. After a visible hesitation and a secretive word with a colleague she finally turned to us and said, "I'll just need to print new boarding cards. Your seats have been changed."

Chris's hackles were raised. "What do you mean? We've booked those seats!"

"Shut up will you! They won't let us on."

"I'm not having..."

"Chris just be quiet!"

"These are your new boarding cards, you'll be in seats 4A and 4B." The Continental Airlines representative was suddenly all smiles. "Please make your way along the jetway and turn left when you get on the aircraft."

We set off down the tunnel to the aeroplane scrabbling with each other like children.

"What did she say?"

"I don't know."

"She said turn left, what does that mean?"

"I don't know, hurry up!"

"If we've been given shit seats I'm going to brain them!"

"Just shush! We're here."

We composed ourselves, and stepped through the door onto the Boeing.

"This way please sir." The assistant indicated the front of the plane.

And with that we were directed into Business First. Chris was practically squealing with glee and immediately turned into the modern day equivalent of a medieval princess, bowing to people and announcing 'Good day kind Sir' and such. (I don’t need to mention the Sir thing again do I?)

We took our seats, the stewardess offering to put our hand luggage and coats in the cloakroom – who knew such wonders existed on an aeroplane? – before asking if we'd like a glass of champagne.

"Why yes, fine lady. That would be simply exquisite," said Chris.

As soon as she left us we descended into childish giggles and 'Oh my Gods!' and ‘What just happeneds?’ before immediately beginning to play around with the gadgets you didn't get in standard class. At that moment we decided we'd only ever fly First Class from now on. Our social status had been elevated and with it we had become more important than everyone we knew. We'd have to get new friends now and move far away from our families for fear we might be associated with them.

The woman returned with our glasses of champagne and we composed ourselves. 

"Can I help you with anything? Do you know how to use the TV?"

Chris put on his best 'this isn't our first time' voice and declined her offer of help with a deep bow of the head and a dramatic swish of the arm. Ten minutes later we had to call her back.

"Remind me fair maiden, how dost one retrieve thine television set from the arm of one's chair?"

I think the cabin crew suspected we'd only ever flown in the back of the plane before and most of them were very accommodating. The Cabin Crew Manager was even good enough to give us a couple of bottles of wine which they'd opened but not used, as we got off the aircraft in America.

The only negative on the flight was one member of cabin crew who was rude to me when I confided our secret in her. 

"Excuse me, I'd ordered a vegetarian meal but we've since changed seats. Is there any chance..."

She looked down at me, both literally and figuratively, and with a flare of her nostrils said, "No. Your meal's back there," and flung a thumb over her shoulder towards our old seats before marching off. 

It was fine though, I complained about her attitude to the woman who eventually gave us the bottles of wine. She sorted me out with something to eat, and ejected her colleague out of the aircraft at 32,000 feet.

Me with the magnificent Manhattan skyline

We spent the first week of our holiday in New York City before flying down to Miami and the Florida Keys for the remainder. While in the Big Apple for the first time we took it upon ourselves to visit every single tourist trap we’d ever heard of.

We began with a round trip on a ferry to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, unfortunately though, we somehow messed it up. 

Lady Liberty as we sailed away 

Ellis Island was very interesting – in the way a museum is interesting next to a theme park – but what we really wanted to do was see Lady Liberty up close. It wasn’t until we were on the second ferry and Liberty Island, with its famous resident, was gradually, but surely, getting smaller, that we realised we’d messed up and got on the wrong boat. If only we’d have known then that this was to be a harbinger of things to come, maybe we’d have been more careful in Miami a fortnight later.

Chris in his consolation tourist crown

I don’t even know how we managed it, now I think about it, it’s a one way route taking in both islands, and it’s pretty difficult to mess it up. Anyway, the Statue of Liberty looked pretty grand from a distance and we consoled ourselves by buying foam crowns and postcards from the hawkers back at Battery Park when we alighted.

Undeterred we continued our day of sightseeing. We headed for Midtown to visit the Flatiron building and coo at its unusual shape, we went to the Chrysler Building to take in its deco delights and we obliged the gods of tourism by taking in the Empire State Building, where of course we visited the viewing deck and looked out across Manhattan to where the Statue of Liberty stood on her plinth in New York Bay, smirking at us and waving her torch in defiance.

It turns out that a week in New York City is a long time when you’re a tourist and it’s possible to run out of things to do. That being said we managed to fill our time fairly well with a mixture of sightseeing, shopping and drinking. 

We went to the twin towers of the World Trade Center on two separate occasions. The first to have cocktails in the Windows On The World bar in the North Tower – aka The Greatest Bar On Earth – where after checking in our coats on the ground floor and travelling in the ear-poppingly fast lift to the 107th, Chris realised he’d left his cigarettes in his jacket downstairs thus triggering the first moment of realisation about how unfair and ill-timed his redundancy had been. I ordered drinks while he went to retrieve his menthols and by the time he returned Chris was livid and actively wishing the early demise of his former friend and boss, the hatchet man, not only for his actions but for doing it a day before we went on holiday.

On the second trip to the World Trade Center, later that week, Chris was slightly less furious. This time we visited the Top of the World observation deck on the 107th floor of the South Tower. We had our small change mangled and imprinted with a friendly message by a machine which charged us ten dollars for the privilege and gazed across the bay to where a certain green statue stared back, blank and smug.

I remember standing on a railing and leaning our heads against the glass, amazed and feeling slightly sick by the distance to the ground below. I can’t even begin to comprehend what it felt like for those poor souls that two years later made the choice (if you can call it that) to leap from that height, beaten back by flames from an exploded Boeing 767.

Oblivious as to the impending future of the World Trade Center, New York City and indeed the world, we went on to spend a wonderful afternoon in Central Park admiring the roller skaters’ balancing skills and going to say hello to the penguins in the zoo. We then spent an hour or so browsing FAO Schwarz, the world’s biggest toy shop, which back then was situated on Fifth Avenue, near the corner of the park. I must admit to loitering a little too long in the Barbie shop, not because I had a particular fascination with the plastic princess but simply because it was a separate store, within a store, with its own street entrance, and I got a little bit confused. We eventually left the emporium with a box of Milleniumopoly and a shiny, steel slinky, important finds I’d say.

As Chris and I were both radio folk at the time, I’d hatched a little plan back in Manchester to see what American radio was all about. I’d been on an internet message board, left my calling card – English man in New York – and secured us a trip to Jammin 105 which was located on the 18th floor of a building on 6th Avenue. This was when I saw Chris’s recent redundancy experience overflow for the second time as he cursed the bastards back in London to the bemused Music Director who was showing us around. 

Jammin 105 was strange to us in the late 90s. British radio was a lively, creative place back then, our station was bustling and fun. In comparison this one was soulless, situated as it was in a corporate style office with glass partitions and carpet tiles, and where we saw only two people. Their presenters, it was revealed, were stationed at home studios in different states across the country and would often broadcast on more than one station. The United States’ geography allowed for this as it was unlikely that a small radio station in New York would clash with say one in San Francisco or Salt Lake City. Looking back now it seems that, as with commercial, format radio before it, the UK was destined to follow in the footsteps of America, removing people and rationalising resources, as a way to improve the bottom line.

Our holiday continued with a dash through Times Square where we attempted to take photographs of a group of grumpy police officers; a stroll around Washington Square Park where we met lots of lesbians congregating for some reason with their lap dogs – each of them dressed preposterously in strange garb. The dogs not the lesbians. 

Bustling Coney Island boardwalk

Part way through the week we took the subway all the way to the end of the line in Brooklyn because I had somehow become obsessed with Coney Island. It was lovely and everything but this being April, and Coney Island essentially being a seaside town, everything was shut. No fairground, no cotton candy, no Diana Ross and Michael Jackson Easing on down the road.

Coney Island funfair, closed

When we returned to Manhattan later that day we stumbled upon a Sikh procession which Chris was thrilled by because they were offering free food to passers-by. I couldn’t tell you what the celebration was about but the food was delicious. 

Naturally we tried a number of bars during our trip including the famous Stonewall Inn, renowned for being the birth place of the American struggle for gay rights, where fellow drinkers marvelled that Chris and I had been a couple for as long as four whole years. We celebrated this with copious amounts of beer and a singalong to high energy mixes of Toni Braxton and other such hits of the day, before heading for The Monster, a gay club across the road. 

We were reliably informed that The Monster was another Manhattan institution and we’d been assured we could continue singing to show tunes around a piano – music to Chris’s ears. Once settled and with drinks in hand, I left Chris trying to work out the lyrics to Somewhere That’s Green from the Little Shop Of Horrors while I went to find the loo. He eventually had to come and find me when, while trying to locate the gents, I’d inadvertently wandered into the basement club and was bumbling about in what appeared to be a gay, Hispanic, hip hop night. I was very popular, a British accent used to do that in New York.

I forget the other places I remember – if that makes sense. I have vague memories of a place called G Bar or G Club or G Spot (but it was a long time ago and I didn’t write it down) and another basement club in a long room where I had a dance off with three locals who were very impressed by my moves, I’ll have you know. I seem to remember us being taken to a swanky hotel bar one night, one of those where you have to know where you’re going and it’s literally a door with no signage, on an unassuming street. I remember another long room with high ceilings and steps, all down one side, which we sat on and quaffed our drinks. I recall with horror their cocktail menu with a dreadful concoction called a cunt-pump listed on it. This delightful beverage was a vodka based drink with tomato juice, garnished with a tampon. Needless to say I didn’t try it. 

Looking back, more than twenty years later, it all sounds very New York and my first time there was lots of fun. We should probably have stayed for four days rather than seven but you live and learn and besides we had a week in Florida to look forward to and of course the horror of missing the flight back home. But that’s for another time.

We went back to New York just once more, in May 2001, with friends. I’d love to go again, it has changed so much, but if I’m honest I don’t think I can afford it now. Back then I was happy to rack up credit card debt and say I’ll pay it off when I’m older, but now I am older, comparatively I earn less money than I did, I don’t want to be in debt again, and I’ve got my ISA to think about. Leave Manhattan to the wealthy and the young adventurers. 

Long live 1999.

2020 has been a brilliant year!

So here we are, three weeks through a four week lockdown which, according to the pundits (the pundits being newspaper columnists and folk on Facebook), will be extended beyond the 2nd December* end date, right through Christmas, and well into the summer of 2025 – and that's a best case scenario for them. 

When I started writing this blog again, just before the first national lockdown, back in March 2020, it was as a way to record what was going on in the world, after all this was all new to me. It was the first pandemic in living memory and, as my memory is dreadful, I wanted a way to be able to look back, not only at what had happened but also about how it had affected me and how I felt about it. 

It's been a funny old year punctuated with moments of fear, sadness and confusion. I've seen people I know lose family to Covid 19, friends lose their jobs, businesses go under, panic at what might happen next, families separated and people dipping in and out of depression. 

I've not seen my own dad since Christmas day last year; he's currently in hospital where, since being admitted, he's tested positive for the virus twice – though thankfully with no symptoms. Chris's job has been turned on its head and he's now working for the ONS Covid survey, and the company I work for four days a week furloughed all but five of us for a number of weeks back in April and May.

All the while the blame game rumbles on. Test and Trace this, killing the economy that, these deaths are a direct result of that policy, the world is turning into an Orwellian dystopia and so on. The bellyaching often conveniently ignoring that many, many countries in Europe and around the world are struggling in much the same way that we are here.

But I've written about lots about this stuff before and today I wanted to focus on something a bit more positive – lest I forget in the future. Alongside all the disruption, confusion, fear and sadness have been a lot of good times, some of which wouldn't have happened had we not been dealt the hand we have been. 

Who didn't, during the first lockdown, get involved in video quizzes? I know I had my fair share of them and even hosted one in April with rounds on serial killers, sex, embarrassing moments and even a do it yourself animal round where contestants had three minutes to get stuff from their kitchens and make an animal to present to the group along with an impression of said beast. Most people got a bit sick of the quizzes after a flurry of them but I know of a regular fortnightly one that's going great guns and I've even toyed with the idea of coming up with another one for my friends now we're back in the same situation.

Birthdays were a different ballgame this year. Our friend Kaz celebrated her 50th in April with a Skype party where we all got smashed and danced in our respective living rooms to a shared soundtrack. When it came to my birthday in September I was lucky enough to be able to be with friends, five of us in total. We had a beautiful Italian meal in what was essentially an empty restaurant, with lots of booze and tonnes of fun. When it came to Chris's birthday in October, with restrictions tightened further, we still managed to get together with friends at a restaurant but this time we sat under heaters outside as outdoor rules were different to indoor rules.

I was really lucky with my birthday now I think about it. A few days after it we had a long weekend in the Lake District with friends, taking in the local pubs, cooking dinner together and going on long walks in the countryside. Of course we were practically pariahs, being from Manchester, and I received a sharp kick under the table when I absentmindedly revealed where we were from to one of the co-operative owners of a local pub we were in at the time.

2020 was the year I started learning Spanish. I began with Duolingo – which I'm still persevering with 157 days later – and had the great fortune to meet the lovely Lilian from Malaga when Chris bought me a bunch of online lessons. I can't say I'm fluent but I'm getting there!

At the beginning of the first lockdown Chris took to going out on weekly bike rides with friends. They travelled all over Manchester, Salford and even into Cheshire coming back with stories of broken swing bridges, attacking pigeons and the discovery of Gnome Island at Salford Quays – a highlight as far as I'm concerned. As a non-cyclist (I never learned okay? Get off my back!) I've not gone on these road trips instead choosing to go walking with friends. One such walk along the Bridgewater Canal to Sale culminating in a long game of hide and seek in Walkden Gardens which, as the youngest in the group (a mere slip of a lad at 45 years old) I easily won.

With the regularly changing rules and regulations it's meant that more and more time has been spent outdoors this year. Thankfully we had a long hot Spring this year and the garden was a blessing, blooming into flower and providing a haven for us and friends when they were allowed to join us. We even had a party out there in the summer when our wedding plans were put on hold. I think that was the last time I danced with other people and it was glorious! Good friends, good weather, good food and good music made our 'not getting married' party a lot of fun.

When I was a kid I used to love camping. The fun of sleeping in a field, being woken by the moos of our bovine neighbours, open fires and starry skies – it never got old. The last time I actually did it though I must have been a teenager which, now I come to think about it, means that I've lived longer without camping than I ever did with.

Over the years I've suggested it to Chris hundreds of times, every time with a firm refusal and a bemused question. Why would I go camping when I can have a week in Catalonia, a weekend in Munich or a fortnight in Tuscany? What's wrong with a hotel? Why should I shit in a trench and where will I put all my moisturisers?

Of course with international travel all but kiboshed in 2020 our holidays plans were thrown out of the window. Imagine my surprise then, when one day Chris decided this was the year we should take up camping. I jumped at the opportunity and with the romantic ideas of my childhood firmly in mind we secured tents and kit and went camping – twice – in the Peak District. The beautiful, majestic, magnificent Peak District with all its wind and rain blowing coldly through the canvas. I've never been as wet as I have been this summer but I'll never forget our friends sleeping in the car when their tent was flooded, trying to make toast on a tiny gas fire, being so pissed that we ate the worst pub grub in the history of the world without a single complaint. Or indeed the tent nearly blowing away, the bastards that kept us awake all night with their party and Chris having them thrown off the site the next day, or getting lost on a path by a river in the middle of nowhere in the pitch black of night and having to trespass through the grounds of an apparently haunted YHA building to find our way back.

Finally we rounded off the pre-lockdown 2 time with a Halloween dinner. We had special cocktails containing worms, ghost stories and a terrible horror film, all accompanied by a really delicious mushroom bourguignon and mash. 

The money we've not spent on holidays and transport and eating out has also meant that this year we've been able to redecorate the house. The sitting room and dining room have been transformed and in addition to the new paint job we've had new furniture, curtains, coffee table, rug and lamps. The guest bedroom has also had a facelift with some lovely new wallpaper from Rebel Walls, a new daybed to replace the rickety old thing that was there before and new carpet. 

So as you can see, while 2020 has certainly had its moments, and will not go down as a bumper year, there have been a lot of brilliant things too. So I'll try not to dwell too much on the negative and use this post as an aide memoire of all the good things that came out of it too.

*News today has revealed that the lockdown will end on 2nd December as promised however it will be superseded by a newly toughened tier system. Where Manchester was in tier three pre-lockdown 2, rumour has it that it will remain there despite infection rates across the city dropping every day for about a fortnight now – in fact they peaked on or around the very beginning of this lockdown. 

This will mean that while non-essential shops, gyms, cinemas and hairdressers will be able to reopen, pubs and restaurants in tier three areas will only be able to offer a takeout service rather than the situation we had before where they could open for people having a 'substantial meal' with their drinks. If this is what comes to pass then in my mind it is ridiculous and will ruin an industry at their most profitable time of year. It feels like we're regressing and it doesn't sit well with me. 

Bananadrama

It is lockdown law that you must make banana bread and so, four days into 'Lockdown 2: The Revenge' as I'm calling it, I've made a banana loaf. I've had two slices so far and they've landed heavily on my stomach. I used four massive bananas in the mix which I think was too many. The recipe says four bananas but it didn't specify what size and it's very heavy. Don't worry though, I'll be eating more before I go to bed tonight.

In other news, the United States has finally got itself a new president. I say finally because it seemed to take such a long time from voting day to the announcement but I suppose when you have 140 million votes to count it's going to take a longer time than it does here with a mere 32 million ballots cast.

It looked like a very close call for a long time but then Biden pulled ahead in a number of areas and, despite what Trump had to say about it, he won.

Traditional and social media were alight with opinions and protestations and even now, the glee is palpable in many quarters. In the UK (at least in my experience) there don't seem to be many – if any – people mourning the loss of 45. The 'be kind' folk on the left would happily see him hunted down, killed in cold blood, and left rotting in a ditch, and even those of us right-of-centre feel a sense of relief at his dethroning. I think the main difference being that the former can't bring themselves to see a single thing he has done in the past four years as positive whereas the latter, recognise that he's a dangerous live-wire with a lot of power.

These opinions (of which I'm massively generalising) are not particularly surprising when you consider that Trump's approval rating in the UK dropped to around 15%. I think it's important however to recognise that he's still incredibly popular on his home turf, the United States, and to try to understand why. 

Like many people around the world I've read a lot about the President, his challenger, and the American 2020 election during the campaigning period. I'm aware of course that I can't possibly have read everything and there will be holes in my understanding and appreciation and I'm also aware that much of what I've read is opinion (but then what isn't?) and point of view. 

That being said, I'd like to note down here some of my observations for posterity and because I have a shocking memory and I'd like to remind myself in the future, when we can see how the world has panned out. I think it's worth noting that these observations, whether they're true or not, robust or flimsy, will no doubt have influenced millions of eligible voters across the pond one way or another.

Before Covid 19 swept across the planet and turned everything on its head the United States was doing very well, economically speaking. Unemployment was at a fifty year low and wages were increasing, Trump had imposed tariffs and brokered trade deals which protected American businesses and jobs, and he was practically the only authority to have stood up to China in terms of their aggressive manner of trading. I can understand why people would vote for someone who was, to all intents and purposes, responsible for increased prosperity and more money in their back pocket.   

I read somewhere that the Latino vote was not necessarily influenced by the appointment of another conservative, Catholic into the Supreme Court but more so by the outcry from the left of centre media about it and her views on abortion and same sex marriage. If important teachings in your religion are under attack in the press and from incredibly vocal liberals, then how does that make you feel? I'd imagine it would make you feel personally attacked on some level, I know when I hear folk banging on about how same sex marriage is an abomination to the church and God it gets my back up and I'm neither religious nor married. I suspect we miss the importance of this in the UK because our abortion laws and same sex marriage are so wildly different here and well protected, and as a country, religion is far more discreet. Of course I read somewhere else that there's no such thing as the Latino vote so who the hell knows?

The Black Lives Matters protests – which in America particularly erupted into riots across the country – would, I'd say, have played into Trump's hands too when it came to the election. Ordinary people don't want to live in a place where riots happen, where they might not feel safe on the streets because of them, or where their businesses and even homes might be under threat from looters and arsonists. The left (I'm generalising again), seems to me, to have metaphorically shrugged its shoulders and said 'yeah I can understand that,' whereas Trump said enough is enough, we can't allow it. Granted he was heavy handed but ultimately he protected a lot of people's livelihoods and safety in the process.

There are just three things I picked out that helped me understand why, despite losing, Trump did so well this time around. And that doesn't even cover the international accomplishments he made such as standing up to China about its treatment of Hong Kong, stamping down on chemical attacks of civilians in Syria with targeted bombing (alongside the UK and France), brokering peace in the Middle East and meeting Kim Jong-un in North Korea.

Now it's practically all over I can already hear assumed reasons floating around as to why people voted for Trump in such large numbers again. They are a lot of the same reasons I still hear about those here who voted to leave the European Union in 2016 – they're stupid, they're uneducated, they're racist, they were duped and lied to, they're gullible or they're simply xenophobic. I think they're lazy assumptions used to sweep things under the carpet and they miss the crux of what's going on in the lives of millions upon millions of ordinary people in what is a strangely divided country. Divided not necessarily by class or wealth or race or even political ideals, but divided by those who are caught up in the momentum of a country and a world undergoing immense shifts and changes, and those that feel they've been left behind and forgotten. Sounds familiar, eh? 

Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't have voted for Trump had I the option, and I don't think he'll go down as a good president, but I think it's worth trying to get another point of view on these things and understand why he was so popular. You don't need me to bring to mind all the outrageous things he's done and on balance I think it's a good thing he's gone – if he ever concedes and buggers off that is.

Covid comes home to roost - Tier 3 for Manchester, a positive test and a national survey.

Back in August I started writing about the situation surrounding Covid 19 and never finished. I wrote: 

The country has been creaking to life for over a month now but is still far from normal. Here in Manchester we've had new restrictions in place for a couple of weeks meaning two households aren't allowed to come together either at home or in a public building. Some venues are only just opening – theatres for example – but are doing so with all manner of precautions and restrictions in place.

We ate at a restaurant for the first time the week before last – Croma our regular haunt – which was nice but again a weird experience. The staff, many of which we know, were all in masks; we weren't supposed to be with someone who wasn't in our household so we said that our guest was a lodger; and tables had been removed. We'd been to a pub a couple of weeks before that.

And that's where I stopped. Interrupted and never to return. Until today... 

I'd have hoped that by now, in the second half of October, things would have improved but sadly not. We seem to have gone the other way.

A week ago the Government introduced a tier system for areas and regions in the UK whereby restrictions designed to slow the infection rate of the virus would be imposed dependent on its severity in that area. I've never heard the words 'Tier three' so many times before in my life since then.

This is a screenshot of today's (21 Oct) Manchester Evening News website with every mention of Tier three circled. See what I mean?

It's understandable, I suppose, when you appreciate that local representatives in Manchester have been negotiating (or fighting, depending on your viewpoint) with central government for a package to support the people that will be affected by the regulations when they are imposed and we move from our current position in tier two.

The new restrictions will mean that pubs cannot serve people drinks unless they are having a meal, this coupled with the ten o'clock curfew which has been in place across the country for a month (21 Sep), and the table service rules feels like another nail in the coffin for the industry in this area. There will inevitably be a knock on effect beyond the pubs and bars that simply have to close – taxis, cleaners and takeaways spring to mind, not to mention the supply chain. Additionally households are still not allowed to meet indoors and now in some outdoor settings too. Travel restrictions are also in place – though I don't think they are actual bans, more recommendations. 

It's become quite confusing for a lot of people, what they can and cannot do, and I can see how it's affecting people's state of mind too. With a full lockdown then three months of restrictions behind them, and now being told it's about to get worse for the foreseeable future, people are getting lockdown fatigue and stress levels are rising.

The way I see it is that the rise in infections has correlated with the return to the city of students, the opening up of schools, and the inevitable mixing that they have been doing. I understand the evidence of infections happening in pubs to be weak at best. 

I've been in a number of pubs over the last few weeks and in each you're expected to register yourself either with the government tracing app, or write down your information for them to hang on to in case there's an outbreak and they need to contact you. You must wear a mask when you're not sitting down – even to go to the loo. Ordering, on the whole is done via your mobile phone on apps and through websites. There are one way systems where feasible and there's sanitiser and warnings everywhere. 

Each and every place I've been to has been managed well and to the regulations. I struggle to see how closing these places down will make a significant difference to infection rates. If anything, the curfew has been more counterproductive as town and city centres across the nation are suddenly flooded with pissed people just before the clock strikes ten.

The wrangle between Manchester's Mayor, the Town Hall, and the leaders of the ten boroughs, and Central Government has been big news and my position on it has changed a number of times since it began. 

I'm not a fan of Andy Burnham, nor was I in favour of introducing city mayors when that happened a few years ago, that being said I was generally supportive of his response to Government saying that the city needs robust financial support to help the people that will be adversely affected by the new restrictions and who will only be entitled to two thirds of their salary, as opposed to eighty percent under the furlough scheme. I was in agreement more so when he suggested a scheme of protecting the vulnerable and allowing others to carry on in the current manner – something I would like to see across the country.

There have been moments when he's appeared to be showboating, he's also been accused of political grandstanding and using the situation for his own interests. I think his intentions are genuine but I can also see a grain of truth in these suggestions. Regardless, he is being hailed as a hero by many and we are now in a different place.

Yesterday the Government took the decision to end negotiations and impose the Tier three restrictions with a fraction of the financial support Burnham et al had requested. There has been a public backlash against this already and in an city not know for its favourable view of the Conservatives, I suspect this decision will ring in people's ears for a generation, much like decisions made by the Conservative government of the eighties did across the north. But time will tell.

Manchester is not the first area to have these restrictions in place, Liverpool was the first, then Lancashire and it now looks like Sheffield and South Yorkshire are doing the same with West Yorkshire and parts of the North East in line next. New Tier two restrictions have been introduced in London, Birmingham and parts of Essex.

To be clear though, whilst rates of infections have increased, deaths involving covid 19 are nowhere near the levels they were earlier in the year. This is down to a number of things including increased knowledge, improved treatment, more testing, and I dare say, the ages of people that are picking it up is currently lower and younger people are less likely to suffer badly from it.

That brings me onto a more personal note. My dad, who is seventy and currently in hospital, has been diagnosed with Covid 19. 

He fell at home on 5th October and after using his magic necklace to alert the emergency folk was taken to Blackpool Victoria hospital where he stayed till last Thursday. When he fell he fractured the very top of his arm, near his shoulder. The recovery situation is complicated by the fact that he uses a frame and with the fracture he can't grip it properly so can't walk. On Thursday he was moved to a place called The Arc which is a hospital where they work on getting him back to a state where he can leave and live independently. Apparently this could take five or six weeks.

At some point between Victoria and the Arc he's picked up a dose of the coronavirus. Currently he's asymptomatic and we're hopeful he'll stay that way but it's a bit scary. On the other hand, he doesn't seem at all bothered by it. He's being isolated for eight days which, as he's already in a room on his own, isn't much of a difference. He's probably seeing more people there than he did at home. So we'll keep phoning him – after all we're not allowed to visit – and see what happens.

Another new turn of events that's been brought on by the pandemic is Chris's work. He's taken on a temporary job which involves delivering and collecting covid tests and surveying people about their recent activities. It's part of a survey for the Office of National Statistics and whilst it's not the most challenging thing he's ever done it keeps the wolves from the door and him out of mischief for a few months.

So the world as we once knew it is still massively disrupted. I'd go as far to say that it feels more disrupted than during the full lockdown but, that being said, we still have friends, and work, and family and things to keep us entertained till the dust settles and we can all get back to some semblance of normality, which I expect will now be in the spring.

Phwoar! Look at that specimen!

In January 2020 I decided I wanted to lose some weight so I fired up an app on my phone, began religiously recording every calorie I consumed and made an effort to have a deficit of about 500 calories a day from the 2,500 recommended limit. It was miserable. 

I dropped beer and swapped it for vodka with fresh lime juice and soda water, my large bar of chocolate became a small and infrequent bar, pasta was substituted with gnocchi and I spent most of my time either hungry or drunk because I'd not eaten enough stodge before I cracked open the Russian Standard. 

Despite the hideousness I started losing weight and come March I'd dropped half a stone (7 lb for those outside the UK). Some of my old shirts began to fit me again, without gaping between the buttons, and I suddenly rediscovered pairs of trousers which, a few weeks earlier, gave my thighs the look of a zeppelin in a boob tube. 

I was only half way to my target, and quite used to the change in eating habits, when Covid-19 – that flu-like condition from a little known Chinese town, which had gone on to strip Australia of toilet paper – landed in the UK and led us to a national lockdown.

At first there was little difference. Then gradually, and over a number of weeks, I started to morph back to my former self. Despite the fact that I continued to eat well I hadn't counted on becoming a veritable hermit. Daily marches across town which formed part of my commute and went some way to keeping the blob at bay, stopped as I settled into working from the dining room table; likewise the twice monthly nightclub dancing sessions ceased; even simple things like walking to a restaurant or bar ended. I had become toad-like in my burrow with a daily routine that took me from the bedroom to the sitting room, with occasional diversions via the kitchen, the bathroom and the garden.

In about the same amount of time it took me to loose seven pounds, I put it right back on again. The shirts were returned to their traditional place in the wardrobe, the trousers reduced in number and the love handles expanded like proving dough. Frustrated and disappointed I realised the only thing for it was either exercise or starvation.

Over the years I've toyed with the idea of running in much the same way as I toyed with the idea of growing dreadlocks and setting up a turtle sanctuary on a Greek island. It's something I like the idea of but, in reality, I just don't have the enthusiasm to do anything about it. 

That being said, some time ago, I mentioned this kernel of an idea to a friend who is a keen runner. There was definitely an element of bravado and swagger in what I was saying to him but deep down I was genuine. Unexpectedly he gave me an expensive pair of running shoes which he'd bought in a mad panic but didn't fit and were discontinued so he couldn't swap them. I accepted his incredibly generous offer graciously hoping this would be the kick up the arse I needed and, as a thank you, I took him to the pub and we got smashed on highly calorific pints of lager. The shoes subsequently languished under the stairs at home.  

That was until a couple of weeks ago when I found myself knocking about on social media one afternoon and a blurry, old photograph popped up showing me, in shorts and tee shirt, the last time I attempted running – seven years ago. I remember the occasion well, I'd lasted all of twenty minutes then spent the remainder of the day recovering and promising myself that one day, after I'd stopped smoking, I'd try again.

I shared the photograph once more on Facebook, almost as a joke, saying that I might take up running again – again, like it was even a thing back then! Within minutes the friend who had gifted me the expensive trainers commented on the photograph, writing, 'Well I did give you those trainers for a reason!' 

Then minutes later another friend offered to go running with me if I wanted a buddy and, before I knew it, I was inspired. 

I contacted the first friend to ask about where I should get running gear. He advised me and I immediately spent the best part of seventy quid on shorts, tee shirts and socks – I didn't want to waste the momentum and I thought, if I spend money on something that will be an incentive to use them in itself. Next I got in touch with the other friend, asked him if he was serious, interrogated him on whether he was any good at running, and if he cared that I would probably be a hindrance to him, then I took him up on his offer – I was on fire!

Three days later the kit arrived. I tried it on, fully expecting to have to send everything back, in the manner of an overly enthusiastic ASOS order, but to my surprise everything fit. Shit was getting real!

I did make a couple of mistakes with the clothes: firstly I'd ordered small socks instead of large, but resolved to make do and stretch them over my size elevens; secondly I'd made a boo boo with the shorts – I could have sworn I'd bought the seven inch shorts but alas, I'd gone for the three inch ones with the slit up the side. 

There was nothing to stop me now; two more friends had heard my story and offered to run with me, and I finally had the right outfit, (is that what you call running clothes? An outfit? A uniform?) My only real concern was being catcalled and heckled as I scandalised the neighbourhoods of South Manchester in my slutty shorts. 

I say 'there was nothing to stop me' when what I mean to write is 'there is nothing to stop me'. The tiny shorts and teeshirts are waiting patiently in my wardrobe, and I've worn the trainers around the house to break them in, I've just not got round to going outside in them.

I will do it eventually, I'm sure. It's the same with everything – I do stuff in my own time. I love the idea of being a runner, and I like the idea of being healthier in my mid-forties than I was in my early forties, or even my thirties for that matter. Most of all though, I long to lose the love handles and the belly, to fit into those shirts again, and mostly to feel confident the next time I take my shirt off at the beach. 

When it boils down to it, and whichever way you look at the situation, it's all about vanity. I don't want to run because I'm embarrassed about what I'll look like when I'm out there sweating and panting yet, at the same time, I want to have a better body than I do now for no other reason than for people to look at me and say, 'Phwoar! Look at that specimen!'

The country opens to the sounds of wailing and gnashing of teeth

    This weekend saw lots of places reopening for the first time after the lockdown. Pubs were, of course, top of the list for many people. 

I'll be honest, I'm really missing a pint of overpriced, cold, fizzy lager, poured by someone with a bad attitude and the social skills of a badger, but that being said, I chose not to venture to the pubs just yet, opting instead to wait and see how it went for others.

I know a few people that did go out on Saturday and it seems, on the whole, to have been a positive experience. My boss went to a place in Chester with some friends and said it was a bit clinical and a strange set up but he's glad he did it. He told me there was a one way system in the pub, which judging by the shops that are open was to be expected, but rather unexpected was the fact there were so very few tables and their nearest one was apparently more than ten metres away. Drinks had to be ordered via an app, then brought to the table by someone wearing a visor. Even going to the loo was monitored by a member of staff with only one person at a time allowed to use them.

Other friends were on Canal Street in central Manchester and reported that it was a nice atmosphere. They sat outside, under parasols, again being served by staff at their tables - staff who were pleased to be back at work no doubt. One even reported the journey home being civilised with people observing social distancing rules, a far cry from the usual last train to Stockport

There have been reports of people flouting the rules and overcrowding streets but people have flouted the rules throughout in one way or another and the papers have got to get their story. Judging by the media it seems the worst area for this was Soho in London but what did anyone expect? It's arguably the busiest night time area in the West End of the biggest city in Europe. Besides, it's not like the people there don't know what's been going on for the last three months - surely it's time to let them choose their own level of risk now the general risk is so low. It seems the venues are mostly doing the right thing, of all the venues in Manchester only two were closed down on Saturday for not adhering to guidelines.

Few and far between were the stories about how great it was to support the hospitality industry as it tried to pull itself back up from on its knees after a crippling three months brought about by a global health crisis.

    After much wailing and gnashing of teeth on social media, the Prime Minister has announced a large funding package for the arts in excess of £1.5 billion. This comes at the end of the week where the Royal Exchange Theatre announced that up to 65% of their roles were to be made redundant, a flurry of images appeared across Facebook of people working in the arts to remind everyone of its importance, and the actor Paul Clayton referred to the PM in an astonishingly shrill tweet as a 'fucksplat'.

I get that the arts in the UK is an almost entirely politically left-wing affair, but the vitriol I've heard from those that work within the industry, directed towards the Government and particularly Mr Johnson of late has been astounding. One might presume from listening to it that he is single handedly responsible for the collapse of the theatres, festivals, live music and the death of all its darlings. I have visions of Ken Loach and Maxine Peake fearing for their very lives as Boris Johnson stalks them down the South Bank of the Thames with a blunderbuss in one hand and a Union flag in the other. 

    Hairdressers, barbers and beauty parlours have also opened their doors again and people are being restored to their pre-lockdown appearances in their droves. The wild man of Borneo look is gradually being replaced with the less unruly, short back and sides; appointments are gleefully being announced as we say goodbye to three inch stripes down the partings of people I always assumed were natural blondes; and we bid adieu to laughter lines, furrowed brows and thin, spiteful lips as the botox & fillers clinics fling open their expressionless doors once more.

    Sadly dentists are not yet fully operational. I called mine this morning to ask about having my temporary crown replaced with the permanent one which they've been holding to ransom since early March, only to be told that they're waiting for PPE, an acronym few people understood in February but that is now part of the lexicon. They can't even give me an idea when they'll be open again so for now the only thing they're doing is pulling folks' teeth out in a dental emergency.

    While all this goes on, or doesn't as the case may be, there's a constant, squawking murmur in the background. As persistent as it is irritating, a whinging chorus of voices claiming to be confused as to what they should do at every turn. Is it two metres or one? Can I go to work or not? The Government should do this, the Secretary should say that. How will I possibly live my life if I'm not instructed precisely how to undertake every single task that involves human interaction or leaving the house?

Swathes of society seem to have relinquished the ability to think for themselves and use common sense. The pedants are out in force - he said, she said, that means, etc - and are desperate to make the most minor things more complicated than we could ever have imagined. Often this is done on behalf of others who they neatly categorised as 'the vulnerable.' Call my a cynic but I suspect they are in fact looking for problems in order to criticise the powers that be. It's really tiresome and my snooze button has been out in force on Facebook again.

The vulnerable people I know haven't once complained that the information is confusing. My housebound dad and Chris's elderly parents have trooped on as usual, taking onboard the precautions they're advised to take and using their nouse to decide when something is right or wrong for them.

    So as the country begins to creak back to life I'm looking forward to going out for a nice meal in a local restaurant some time this week. Croma, our usual pizza place, isn't opening up again for the time being so I think we'll pop down to Saray instead for some Turkish tucker and show our support for the family that own it. Hopefully there'll be a local pub open too, somewhere I can sit in a booth and drink over priced, cold, fizzy lager poured by someone with a bad attitude and the social skills of a badger.