OVERSEAS CORRESPONDENT
It’s early days, but like most Waikato based shit-posting pages, I’m quickly losing mana.
As the lockdown cracks on, we’re catching up. Belfast might technically be in the UK, but at this point, our daily death rate isn’t anywhere near as spooky as the mainland; however, by the time this is published we could easily be writhing in our own shit. At this point, the city is still in the process of repurposing, any location capable of controlled public gatherings is steadily being converted into nightmarish testing facilities, temporary morgues, or makeshift hospitals. We’re living the dream.
Despite the constant onslaught of constant reminders of how “the worst is yet to come”, “the UK will be hardest hit over Easter”, and “death tolls across Europe continue to skyrocket” – the rickety streets of Belfast remain fairly calm. I’ve been standing in line at local convenience stores while customers have spun yarns to the poor cunts behind the till about how they’re living with someone who’s confirmed positive, before nonchalantly suggesting to “chuck some gloves on in case they catch it lol”. Nobody seems too bothered. It’s as if this advice to act as if we already have it has made the whole situation more of a waiting game, rather than an attempt to steer clear of contraction.
Alas, in the confines of my fairly Coronation Street style flat it’s business as usual. Following real-time COVID-19 analytics like a sadistic Wall Street protagonist cliche, fuelling existential ceiling staring with ambient Spotify playlists, and compulsive online shopping to compensate for the lack of money I’m spending on the usual convenience of ‘leaving the house’.
At this point, cabin fever seems to be the primary worry, other than the apparent tsunami of cases we’re due for next week. Without the beckoning call of ruining your life every weekend, there’s little point in tracking what day it is, there’s barely a reason to hold a sleep schedule let alone eat enough to be entirely cognizant.
With all of this cracking on, there’s nothing more I crave than a dingey smokers area. The idea of being surrounded by fuck knows who, existing in your most cunted state, being shoved about by the sweatiest of creatures, having someone spilling half their drink on your fake Tommy Hilfiger shirt while scuffing your prized town shoes in the process. Human contact.
It’s times like this that make me wish I drunk that ominous beverage that’d been ashed into and abandoned, just for the sake of risking my health, living in a time where the worst thing you could catch was fixed using the flat sink, multi-surface spray, and ignoring it until it went away.
In reality, I’m doing a shocking job at being the European correspondent. Truth is I have absolutely no fucking clue what’s going on, nobody really does. My greatest contribution to this whole situation was half-heartedly considering one of the many “Clap for the NHS” events – standing on our doorsteps clapping for the public health system to compensate for the lack of adequate funding and support by the government. It’s grim. At this point the summary is more or less the same, cunts are still fucked, people still look like they’re about to have a stroke when you jog past on the street, and the vast majority of lads are now either sporting a semi-polished dome or taking this opportunity to grow out their pubic facial hair.
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