I read today that our stumbling, bumbling Prime Minister, Boris Johnson,
has been given a new nickname by many of his Tory MP “supporters.” With
delightful timing, bearing in mind today’s date, he is increasingly referred
to, I understand, as “Advent Calendar” because his days are, apparently,
numbered! Ah! December 1st, Advent – from the Latin “Coming”. Children
throughout the world will be opening the numbered doors and windows on their
Advent Calendars and dreaming of the coming Christmas Day and all that it
promises. In my street several houses are already decorated with bright fairy
lights and Christmas trees. Yesterday we began to write our Christmas cards and
wished our family and friends happiness during the coming Christmas and New
Year.
But what a long way we have come since we expressed those same
sentiments during Advent 2019. Then, only 366 days ago, the good ship HMS
United Kingdom was steaming ahead across an almost serene sea with its newly
appointed captain Jolly Boris assisted by his first mate Dubious Dominic and
his crafty cabinet crew of scurvy sea dogs. We passengers on HMS United Kingdom
were all looking forward to the usual excesses of the Christmas season – office
parties, City bonuses, our credit card debt mounting, city centre pubs and
clubs awash ensuring that emergency services were kept busy and a thousand
other fantasies, dreams and desires which were stoked up by Jolly Boris for, as
he often announced over the loud hailer, our magnificent ship would soon reach
the shores of the magical kingdom of Brexitland where our every need would be
met and every dream fulfilled. There would be jobs, money and joy for all; the
years of austerity, misery and pain would be over so spend, spend, spend. And
in the casinos, the shops and the pubs and restaurants of HMS United Kingdom we
spent what we liked and what we did not have - for we were, Captain Boris told
us, on the greatest ship ever created, full of riches, luxurious and quite unsinkable
and on course to a magical land of plenty.
No one, however, thought too hard about the passengers in Economy Class
decks deep down in the bowels of the ship. For them office parties,
restaurants, maxed out credit cards, huge bonuses or even Christmas joy were a
far off dream. They lived off the crumbs from the overflowing tables above and
Captain Boris told us that this was good and called it "trickle down
economics" so we should keep partying so that our crumbs would trickle
down to the poorest passengers below decks. These Economy Class passengers
passed the journey in the oil and the dark near the the engine rooms of HMS
United Kingdom whilst above them the rest of us in Tourist Class, 2nd Class and
1st Class, cheered on by Captain Boris, enjoyed the sun light, the bright
lights and the excesses of the Advent Sea and the Brexit Ocean beyond. But as
we made merry no-one, especially captain Jolly Boris, took any notice of the
lookout high above in the crow’s nest who daily shouted “Danger, Brexit iceberg
ahead prepare for a crash”. The good captain laughed his jolly laugh and said
“Full steam ahead my hearties, nothing can stand in our way, we are unsinkable,
I'll get you to Brexitland easily”. And in the coming weeks Captain Boris and
his crafty crew took no notice either when the lookouts called from their lofty
perches “Covid Mists ahead prepare for a plague”. Captain Boris and his First
Mate Dubious Dominic said “Don’t worry it’s a storm in a tea cup, you’ll hardly
feel the ripples in our mighty ship – we’ll send the Covid Mist packing”. So,
no preparations were made as the HMS United Kingdom steamed on through Advent
and the New Year towards the Brexit Iceberg and the Covid Mists. And – just
like on the unsinkable Titanic a century before – on the upper decks the band
continued to play while the passengers, Captain Boris, and his scurvy crew,
like the jolly Jack Tars of old, danced the hornpipe under Captain Boris’ own
flag – the Jolly Todger – a personal standard emblazoned with the names of the
many offspring that he had fathered each time he had dropped his anchor in fair
old London town. But as Captain Boris danced and made merry, below decks in the
darkness the Third Class passengers, the Economy Class passengers, the Gig
Economy Class passengers and lowest of all, in the very bilges of the ship, the
passengers with no cabin or bed to lie on - the Homeless passengers - struggled
on, getting food where they might and sleeping on the cold iron floor when they
must. And, uncaring, the good ship HMS United Kingdom with its wealthy
passengers and crafty crew cruised on towards Brexitland when, Captain Boris
told us passengers, our great journey would soon be done.
And the days and weeks passed. Another year, and here we are. Advent
2020. The good ship HMS United Kingdom is still afloat – just - limping along,
lost and alone on a vast sea. Its sails are in tatters, its sick bays full. Its
glossy shops are all closed and its restaurants and bars empty. Passengers who
once enjoyed the sun and the excess of the upper decks now peer out from their
cabins their faces haunted and fearful – thoughts of casinos, bars and revelry
all gone. Great dents and gashes mark the hull of the ship following the many
crashes with the Brexit Iceberg, and icy waters leak in to the great hull and
making the ship list dangerously. Below decks the Economy Class passengers are
fewer now – many have died as the Covid Mists drifted through the dark spaces
in the bowels of the ship and along corridors and slipped under cabin doors.
The Covid Mist overtook the ship, crept into every corner and in the bowels and
bilges the Economy Class passengers, already suffering from poor health
following years of harsh labour and poverty fell ill in great numbers; their
poor diet and cramped conditions making life difficult to sustain. And once the
virus mist crept amongst them it spread like wildfire. Captain Boris however
stayed jolly – and many loved him for it – he could not bear to see the
terrible truths that people were dying because the look out in the crow's nest
had not been heeded and no preparations had been made. And, because of the
quest for Brexitland the ship had lost its bearings zig-zagging and going in
circles over the endless Brexit Ocean. But still Captain Boris did little; he
didn’t like work or worry. Life was for living not worrying or planning and
preparing, he and his crafty crew of sea dogs were too busy for boring stuff
like planning a good course or paying attention to advice and detail instead
they spent their time dancing and singing under the Jolly Todger. And some of
the passengers began to mutter and complain but Captain Boris took no notice.
Now, however, no one today, in this 2020 Advent, aboard the once
unstoppable and unsinkable HMS United Kingdom dreams of Christmas excess, huge
bonuses or office parties – most of us passengers would be happy with a quiet
and safe Christmas spent in our cabins with our loved ones. Captain Boris no
longer cheers people on with his loud hailer promising them riches beyond belief
– he appears only rarely, his face haunted and haggard. His trusty First Mate
Dubious Dominic walked the plank and many other of the scurvy crew are now food
for the fishes. But Captain Jolly Boris, not now so jolly, lives on like some
21st century Captain Ahab emerging only from his cabin only when it is safe.
Ahab scanned the oceans for his nemesis Moby Dick, the great white whale, and
Captain Boris scans the ocean for his own twin nemeses Brexitland and
Covidvaccineland. He still hopes that the magical Brexitland will bring him
salvation and that Covidvaccineland will, by some scientific miracle be avoided
if scientists come up with a cure. If not, Captain Boris knows that like the
Advent Calendar his days are numbered. Like Captain Ahab, he will be swallowed
up by his nemeses – it will be political oblivion.
But as he scans the ocean through his telescope looking for some
salvation Captain Boris sees only a sea of floating bodies wrapped in their
Union Flags – the dead victims of the Covid Mist that swallowed up our
unprepared ship and are now buried at sea. And below Captain Boris’ feet in
Economy Class the surviving poor scramble for what little food, water or warmth
there is, fighting for daily handouts. And as they sleep, cold in the bowels of
the hulk they dream that one day they might find themselves on dry land where
they can feel the sun, till the soil or build a rough cabin to call a home of
their own – anything, to survive and escape from the floating nightmare that is
the HMS United Kingdom under the captaincy of Jolly Boris and his scurvy crew.
As the sun sets HMS United Kingdom lists a little more and parts of it begin to
break off and the passengers on the Scottish Deck talk of taking to the
lifeboats and seeking safety elsewhere, perhaps on the good ship EU. But on HMS
United Kingdom the old hull creaks and groans as Captain Boris, his eyes
blinded by the constant searching for the sunny uplands of Brexitland, scans
the horizon whilst behind him the band plays on; playing again, as it plays every
day when another burial at sea takes place, the same hymn that it did on the
Titanic when that mighty unsinkable ship sank a century before: “Nearer my God
to thee”.
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