OVERSEAS CORRESPONDENT
Itβs early days, but like most Waikato based shit-posting pages, Iβm quickly losing mana.
As the lockdown cracks on, weβre catching up. Belfast might technically be in the UK, but at this point, our daily death rate isnβt 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. Weβre living the dream.
Despite the constant onslaught of constant reminders of how βthe worst is yet to comeβ, βthe UK will be hardest hit over Easterβ, and βdeath tolls across Europe continue to skyrocketβ – the rickety streets of Belfast remain fairly calm. Iβve been standing in line at local convenience stores while customers have spun yarns to the poor cunts behind the till about how theyβre living with someone whoβs confirmed positive, before nonchalantly suggesting to βchuck some gloves on in case they catch it lolβ. Nobody seems too bothered. Itβs 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 itβs 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 Iβm spending on the usual convenience of βleaving the houseβ.
At this point, cabin fever seems to be the primary worry, other than the apparent tsunami of cases weβre due for next week. Without the beckoning call of ruining your life every weekend, thereβs little point in tracking what day it is, thereβs barely a reason to hold a sleep schedule let alone eat enough to be entirely cognizant.
With all of this cracking on, thereβs 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.
Itβs times like this that make me wish I drunk that ominous beverage thatβd 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, Iβm doing a shocking job at being the European correspondent. Truth is I have absolutely no fucking clue whatβs going on, nobody really does. My greatest contribution to this whole situation was half-heartedly considering one of the many βClap for the NHSβ events – standing on our doorsteps clapping for the public health system to compensate for the lack of adequate funding and support by the government. Itβs grim. At this point the summary is more or less the same, cunts are still fucked, people still look like theyβre 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.