Day 1 - The New Normal
It’s seems like a hell of a long time since lockdown was first declared! At times I’ve felt like Bill Murray in ‘Groundhog Day’. Other times, I’ve felt like Ryan Reynolds in that movie where he’s trapped in the box (the box being my own pokey flat!)
Thankfully, we’re seeing a chink of light at the end of the tunnel. We’ve gone from ‘Stay at home!’ to ‘Stay alert!’ Although I’m not entirely sure what ‘alert’ refers to. Should we be scanning the skies for rogue invasions of flying bats or pangolins? Should we be expecting war-like sirens that instruct when to dive back through our front doors? Let’s wait and see…
But life hasn’t been all bad in my humble abode. I’ve got to know my crazy neighbours a lot more — a little too much in the case of the scantily-clad Dan and Mary opposite. I’ve watched a criminal amount of awful TV — yes, ‘Man-Eating Super Snake’, I’m referring to programmes like you! I’ve even managed to cook a few ‘cordon bleu’ dishes without incinerating the kitchen (quite a feat for me!)
In terms of exercise, poor little Sergio has been dragged back and forth to the park every single day on his little pug legs. I’ve never met a lazier dog!
Nevertheless, what has really kept me going through all this has been my three new toys: first there's my very own Men’s Satisfyer Heat (delightful!), then there was my cute little Tenga Egg (whose disposable nature means he’s no longer with us — RIP my special little friend), and last but not least, there’s Hugo (wow!). And he’s still going strong — believe me!
So back to the matter in hand — deconfinement. Apparently, we can now do as much outdoor exercise as we want (poor Sergio!). We can even play basketball and tennis — but only with someone from our household. Could I train the bone-idle Sergio to be the next Boris ‘Barker’? We can sunbathe — a cruel joke from the Prime Minister there, and even have a picnic!
Now, who am I going to take to my picnic? Well, there’s me obviously, I suppose I’ll have to invite Sergio…and could I? Could I invite Hugo for tea and cucumber sandwiches on the lawn? Well, I suppose I could with social distancing at all times! I’ll leave the more intimate moments for when we’re back in the safe confines of my cosy (not pokey) little flat!
Why is it that the more channels you have, the less there is to watch on TV? It’s one of life’s great enigmas, isn’t it?
Not too long ago, people had to be content with only four or five channels —and they were. I remember as a boy coming home from school and watching literally hours of TV, one programme after another — unadulterated TV binges. But now I can’t watch something for more than five minutes before I’m flicking over to the next channel, or checking my mobile —or staring longingly out the window…
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for a cold glass of lager with friends in the local’s beer garden right now! Damn you fine weather! Why do you have to show up today of all days? Are you ridiculing us? You only ever bother to make an appearance for about two weeks a year! Couldn’t you just wait a little while so we could actually enjoy your lovely, warm rays in good company while gulping down pints of the delicious amber nectar?
No, you couldn’t? Well, that’s fine — me and you have fallen out. Thank goodness I’ve still got the telly’s warm glow to keep me from going completely insane. Now, there must be something good on at this hour…
BBC1: Mrs Brown’s Boys — about as funny as a fart in a lift. Zap! ITV: Through the Keyhole — you’re kidding, right? They still show this? Zap! ITV3: Midsommer Murders — oh look, my granny’s favourite show. Zap! Dave: Mock the Week — they’ve shown this episode about forty-three thousand times already! Zap! DMAX: Man-Eating Super Snake — seriously? Zap! Zap! Zap! ZAP! I fling the remote against the wall for the umpteenth time this week — it’s a good job these things are indestructible.
Speaking of remote controls, a special package arrived for me today: the new Hugo by Lelo — a hands-free vibrating prostate massager that promises to give the world’s most explosive orgasms. Now, I’m not normally one for too much experimentation down there, but I enjoyed some particularly delightful experiences with my last two toys. What’s more, they do say that the male G-spot really exists — and guess where it’s found!
I apply a generous amount of lube, insert gently and grab the the remote control — let’s hope it gives me a bit more pleasure than the one lying next to the wall! So, here goes…bzz — the first setting feels pleasant enough; bzzzz — I can feel it a bit more now, time for the next one; bzzzzzz — I can definitely feel that, feels great; bzzzzzzzzzz — amaaaazing! Bzzzzzzzzzzz — COWAGBUNGA!!! Wow! That definitely beats a night in front of the TV — and I only tried five channels!
Now, the sun may have gone in and the only party you’ll be going to for a while will be on Zoom, but it’s time to unwind and pour yourself that cold glass of amber nectar you’ve been promising yourself all day. And if you’re really lucky you might even be able to catch the last bit of Man-Eating Super Snake on DMAX — ahhh bliss, this is the life!
“Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours…” The great British public’s favourite Australian soap espoused the virtues of living in a tight-knit community where everybody knew everybody else’s business. Since confinement has taken hold and I have had to put up with the daily goings-on of my own neighbours, I have come to a worrying revelation — my building is less like ‘Ramsey Street’ and more like ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’.
Let’s start with the McDougal family below — a seemingly pleasant couple in their early forties from Scotland with a pair of twin boys from…Satan’s own kingdom! I hadn’t really noticed them before, but now school’s out, the incessant din that rises from below makes the chimpanzee enclosure at London Zoo seem like a place of peace and tranquillity. I can hear the little brats jumping on the sofa, swinging on the curtains, and most probably, throwing excrement at each other — as their helpless parents look on in horror and resignation.
Then there’s Mrs Brown — a harmless little old lady in her seventies. Mrs Brown has always liked a bit of chit-chat, but since confinement, her appetite for gossip has become insatiable. When she’s not out on the balcony trying to find out what her neighbours are up to, she’s shouting down the phone to her long-suffering daughter about the latest celebrity scandals. I must admit that I’ve not gone outside for a bit of fresh air once or twice this week just to avoid the ‘Mrs Brown inquisition’.
Lastly, there’s the pair of 50-something exhibitionists on the top floor. Let’s call them ‘Dan’ and ‘Mary’. You see, Dan and Mary moved in quite recently and we haven’t yet had the chance to meet. But, judging from their penchant for semi-exposing their rather ample bodies during the day and their gorilla-like grunting at night — they’re not exactly the shy and retiring types.
Anyway, moving on from my crazy neighbours…a special package arrived for me today — my new Tenga Egg Crater! A welcome distraction from the tedium of confinement and a great way to make the most of my alone-time. So, I`m going to close the curtains, put some headphones on, lube up — and enjoy! The Egg’s wonderful crater-like texture is absolutely second-to-none. It gives me all the stimulation I need to reach the highest heights and erupt powerfully in a frenzy of my own hot lava. Ah, yes! What a wonderful way to end the day — so wonderful that I hear a warm round of applause! A round of applause? What the…?!
Thankfully, it’s not my neighbours congratulating me on my masturbatory efforts, although I did do rather well. No, it’s the 8pm applause for the brave NHS workers, who are making such sacrifices for all of us all during these hard times. So, I quickly get fully-dressed, throw open the curtains and join in with the applause on the balcony. There’s the McDougal family with their adorable little kids jumping up and down excitedly, Dan and Mary in matching underwear waving from the top floor, and the lovely Mrs Brown smiling gently as a big pair of binoculars dangle from her arm. After the applause is over, we engage in a bit of small talk, we wish each other good night and we all think to ourselves — maybe our neighbours aren’t so bad after all.
A lot has happened since I last wrote — no I’m not talking about my own hours of confinement, which have mainly consisted of indulging in vast amounts of procrastination porn while my pet pug clambers over another pile of discarded dirty tissues and stares at me inquisitively with those big eyes—stop judging me Sergio! I’ll get some work done later!
Anyway, I digress…No, I’m actually talking about ‘lockdown UK’!
We’re in it together now — all in the same boat. An enormous prison boat that we’ve all been thrown in for our own good to prevent us from merrily sauntering around the country sharing the special gift of COVID-19 with every unlucky senior citizen in our vicinity. The Rolling Stones, for example, with their combined age of 3468, will be eternally grateful for our cooperation and another chance to expose their gleaming dentures and shake their prosthetic hips in front of the adoring masses (while making shiploads of sterling) when this is all over.
What else? Oh yes, the great Prime Minister of our country ‘good old Bojo’ has been struck down after heroically ignoring all expert advice and “shaking hands with everybody” on a recent hospital visit. Now who is going to expertly guide the HMS Coronvirus to safe harbour now? Certainly not Prince Charles (his tireless efforts will be missed by millions)— what about Prince Andrew? The (not so grand) old Duke of York? He’s served in the Royal Navy and is known to have successfully navigated to a mysterious Pacific island on many an occasion in the not too distant past. Well…let’s not go there. No, really — let’s not!
My experiences? Well I did get the sudden urge for a McDonalds after seeing queues of ravenous burger munchers at their drive-thrus. If people could actually be bothered to sit and wait for that long because McDonald’s has to close its doors for a couple of weeks, maybe there’s more to a Big Mac and nuggets than flattened-out fatty cow guts and reconstituted chicken parts. Yummy! Or maybe people are really expecting the COVID Armageddon and prefer to go all out in a blaze of Type 2 diabetes and cardiac arrest? Or maybe they’re hoarding the stuff because they’ve seen the Youtube videos showing that Mac D’s ‘food’ never, ever goes off —inspired tactic!
Exercise? After scrapping the 30-minute ab-workout challenge due to technical difficulties (basically I can’t be arsed to do 200 sit-ups a day). I decided to don the spandex and go out for a run instead —and gassed out after 5 minutes. Unfortunately for me, my paunch is closer to resembling that of a young Matt Lucas or James Corden than that of a Schwarzenegger in his prime. Still, there’s more to life than having a six-pack, isn’t there?
Enough with the exercise talk — now for more pressing matters. So, with the absence of any female company and zero possibility of a hot Tinder hook-up (whatever that is!), I’ve decided to order myself a sexy little number online that’ll make my solo lovemaking experiences a little bit…posher — the Satisfyer Men Heat. Apparently, you don’t need to have been born with a clitoris to enjoy the stimulatory delights of a Satisfyer. Besides, I’m sure Sergio will appreciate not having to deal with my tissues sticking to his paws.
With the Satisfyer Men Heat on its way, that’s one basic need about to be met. Now I’m starting to feel a bit peckish — my tummy has started rumbling. Yes, it’s definitely giving me a sign —I wonder if McDonald’s do home delivery…
OK, so it’s actually started to get real — even Boris is starting to take it seriously now and he can’t even be bothered to comb his hair in the morning. If the great British institution of the public house is no longer open for business then we have a national emergency.
So, off I go to brave the queues and get the essentials to survive COVID-19 Armageddon. Shopping list in hand, I set off for Costco prepared to fight to the death for the last Sticky Rib flavoured Pot Noodle, while skilfully evading the infected, airborne droplets of rogue super-spreaders.
The queue stretches around the block but once inside, it doesn’t turn out quite like the World War Z scenario I’m expecting. Thankfully the panic buying was all done in a terribly orderly British fashion - despite people loading their trolleys with baked beans, bog roll and sliced bread like there’s no tomorrow.
By the way - bread, tins and long-life milk I understand, but toilet roll? Is one of the unmentioned symptoms of COVID-19 explosive diarrhoea? Well, I’d better get quite a few myself just in case…
I get home, shopping in hand, rather proud that I’d managed to achieved so much (it’s surprising what you can get done without a hangover on a Saturday morning), before realising I’ve broken the golden rule… handwashing.
Have you learnt nothing from the Instagram feeds of the self-sacrificing celebs over the last few days? Panic over, I switch on the TV and to my horror see fellow Brits having it large in Skegness, cycling in the peak District and strolling around Richmond Park! What’s all that about? All while I’ve been self-isolating for a whole 33 minutes!
I’m determined to do this. I set about jotting down all the things I could do with my spare time: educate myself - read that ‘Sapiens’ bestseller I got for Christmas; Cook - imagine all those gourmet recipes I could conjure up (Casserole à la Normande sounds delicious); Exercise - '30 minute workout for shredded abs'. l’m gonna leave self-quarantine looking like a combination of Jason Momoa and a young Schwarzenegger.
Let’s start with the book. "About 14 billion years ago matter, energy and time…". Well, that’s enough for now. I’m starting to feel a bit peckish - hmm… Casserole à la Normande, cooking time 90 minutes. Pot Noodle it is then.
I’m a bit full now, have a little lie down… just a little snooze. The nap lasts a little bit longer than expected. Ok, time for a serious ab workout. Maybe leave it for tomorrow - after all, I had a kickabout a few weeks ago and my ankle’s still giving me a bit of aggro.
Check my emails. Oh! Look at that "free premium Pornhub for the duration of the virus" - Suppose it’d be rude not to…
Well I didn’t achieve quite as much as I’d hoped to on my first day of quarantine, but at least I understand the reason behind the rush for all that toilet paper - and it’s got nothing to do with explosive diarrhoea.