Sunday 29th March


I never thought that Waitrose might kill me.

But we live in the strangest of strange times. All of our major socialising places are closed. All we have for socialising are a billion Houseparty notifications, while remaining firmly not in the house.

And “popping to the shops” now means exposing yourself to your fellow man, all of whom might cough on you and kill you.

But my mum and I need to eat, and we agreed that I am slightly better out of the two of us at maintaining social distancing and not touching your own face. The other day Mum touched a gate, realised that it might have coronavirus, and put her hands to her face in alarm.

So I updated my will, made my peace with God, and set off into the depths of hell itself.

Sunningdale Waitrose.

There was a queue outside, which was fine, but it’s also extremely windy today, which adds to the coronavirus spreadability. Thankfully, however, most of my fellow queuers were wearing either surgical masks or scarves. This was both reassuring, and also a reminder that eVeRyThInG iS tRyInG To kILL Us.

Strangers were talking to one another (from a distance of >2m), which was unusual, too. We Brits know how to queue like a champ, but this is usually done in complete silence. One woman was loudly talking about her husband while on the phone to a friend. Apparently she told him he’s not allowed to smoke anymore, and now he’s driving her mental.


Anyway, I got to the front door and asked the chap managing the queue if I could wipe my trolley with an antibac wipe that I’d brought from home (I am a responsible isolator). But no need – they had already done it. Good old Waitrose. Though I suppose their shopper demographic is a bit more at-risk than Tesco or LIDL’s, so it makes sense that they’d want to keep them alive where possible.

Anyway, a man came out with a trolley that contained 8 crates of San Miguel, and I was ushered inside.

Some thoughts.

For a start, it is pretty much BAU for the staff there. One was manning the Customer Services desk, politely explaining to a pensioner that no, they couldn’t return a ready-meal because she’d bought it from Tesco. Others were stocking the shelves, doing their ready best to maintain a 2m distance from each other and shoppers. And there was one extremely flustered lady who shouted at me for using the till wrong.

In an unrelated note to coronavirus, I do not understand self-scanning shopping. Not self-scan tills, but the one where you carry the little boop machine around with you and boop things as you go.

I’ll get there eventually.

Second, this particular Waitrose does not have a lot of space. There’s not that much room for two people to walk past each other in an aisle as it is, let alone with a Jeremy Clarkson-sized void between them. This means that I held my breath a lot as people walked past, which must have made me look profoundly weird.

Third, there were almost entirely full shelves, save bog roll, naturally. Even the fine people of Sunningdale need to pipe one out occasionally.

Fourth, there was a degree of camaraderie among the shoppers. And some confusion as to the rules, too. As one member of staff diverted her route to give a customer some space, he loudly barked at her, “Don’t worry love, I’m not sick, hahahaha.” Well, Geoff, 52, who drives a Jag, that’s not the bloody point.

There was also a group of middle-aged women having a good natter by the yoghurts. I quietly crossed out the Activia on my shopping list.

And, finally, the aftermath. Once I got back to the car with my trolley, I remembered to antibac my hands. Then I opened my car boot and put all the shopping in. Then I realised that I’d just touched all the shopping again, so antibacced my hands again before closing my boot. Then I put the trolley into a trolley rack and realised I’d just touched the trolley again, so antibacced my hands again.

When I got home, I unloaded the shopping, and antibacced my hands again. Then I realised I’d just touched all the doors on the way in, so I antibacced them and my own hands again.

In other news, my hands now look like I’ve put them in my Nutribullet and switched the power on. I am going through moisturiser like it’s cider at a festival (recklessly quickly).

So, readers, you’ll be pleased to know that I have survived my ordeal. While there is a chance that I contracted the coronavirus while out, I feel like I took as many precautions as humanly possible. And now we have food.

And whisky.

Update on the jogging post from yesterday – my legs constantly feel like they’re covered in concrete.

Two miles.

Something Good

Don’t judge me.

Sometimes… when I’m feeling pretty low, or stressed, or blue…

I watch Barbershop Quartet videos.

And yes, there are hundreds. You’re welcome.

Saturday 28th March


I’ve taken up running.

I’m just as surprised as you are. Good bloody grief.

Today, I went for a two mile run. I’ve been trying to wrack my brains as to when I last ran anywhere that wasn’t towards food or alcohol, but I think it must be circa 2016 when I was still living by a common.

Don’t get me wrong, I exercise. Sort of. Yoga mostly, but some weights and cycle machine for some cheeky cardio (I hate myself). But running has never been my go-to form of physical exertion.

To steal a joke from Jo Brand, they recommend that you get out of breath five times a week. So I took up smoking.

But anyway, yes. Jogging. Perhaps its the recent pictures from France and Italy of beautiful, entirely empty streets save for some swarthy-looking types out in jogging gear. Maybe it’s because the government explicitly said it’s a reason to get out of the house.

Maybe it’s because a pandemic makes you realise that, in the case of a real apocalypse happening, you’d be the fat one that dies immediately at the start of the film.

So here we are. I am now a “runner.” Some initial thoughts.

Firstly, this clip remains the pinnacle of describing the feeling of being a new jogger.

Second, I encountered a couple of other runners while out, even in the relatively quiet countryside area I’m isolating in. I experienced an immediate camaraderie that was nothing short of lovely. One gave me a thumbs up, the other a grin as we both ran into the road to maintain social distancing from one another.

Maybe it’s the coronavirus, maybe it’s the fact that it’s not London, but I’ve never really felt that feeling of being part of a exercise community before.

I quite like it.

Third, I turn beetroot red when I run, making me look like an anthropomorphic tomato that’s running away from a greengrocer. This is unfortunate.

Fourth, running gives you a massive endorphin hit, and my goodness me is it addictive. I’ve been feeling quite flat over the last few days, and rather than medicate with good life decisions (exercise, meditation, productivity) I have largely tried to cheat the system (alcohol). But running definitely makes you feel great, and I am here for that.

Fifth, I can no longer use my legs. And I still have to take the dogs out. Pray for me.

Indeed, pray further still, for tomorrow, I will have my Charge of the Light Brigade. I will look this virus square in the face, and tell it that I fear it not. I will face death, and I will not flinch.

Tomorrow, I go to Waitrose.

Something Good

While we have yet to see the worst of the virus in the UK, it’s going to get quite bad, quite soon. We now have over 1,000 deaths, which is, of course, tragic. But spare a thought for our friends across the Atlantic. Led by a moron and with no universal healthcare, The USA may well end up being an absolute disaster.

That being said, some people are stepping up to reinforce the importance of social distancing when their President is failing to…


Friday 27th March


A quick preface:

Anyone who is happy that our Prime Minister has the coronavirus is a prize cock. The man has a pregnant girlfriend and has been working his (probably mismatching) socks off to tackle this bastard virus. I, for one, wish him a very speedy recovery.

But this is objectively very funny.

In case you missed it, this is the context:

Yes, Joris Bohnson has contracted the coronavirus. If his immune system is half as strong as his propensity for accidental offspring then he’ll probably be right as rain within a few days, though.

He bloody better be, too. If he’s not fit enough to take the helm, then Dominic Raab takes over. And, in all honesty, I would rather have the reanimated corpse of Margaret Thatcher in charge than a man who didn’t realise that the Dover-Calais crossing is “a bit important to trade.”

But anyway. We have hit over 100 deaths in one day, which is not a landmark you want to happen. Sadly, it was always going to. What’s quite alarming is that the government does look like it might be short of ventilators when the peak hits, despite there being an EU directive to help member-states acquire them.

The government response, when asked about this? “We are not a member of the EU.” While more information has surfaced since that response, it is clear that the UK was extended the offer of being a part of the EU’s ventilator drive, failed to join it, and are now at the back of the queue.

I miss Brexit. I really do. I long for the days of the country being in political ill-health rather than medical. But if Brexit ideology means that we are short of vital medical supplies, then I hope that when this is all over, we hold those responsible to account. No-one should die because of Brexit.

Ask them. Ask the leading Brexiteers, most of whom have buggered off to their second homes to infect the locals there, if they still give any sort of toss about Brexit, right this minute. I bet you they bloody don’t. All their financial benefits from the UK leaving the EU have been pissed up the wall with the stock market crashing.

And I would bet a buttock that the vast majority of the general public couldn’t give any less of a toss if the transition period gets extended.

And yet, the government still insists that we’re not extending it. If we crash out of the EU with no deal, before a vaccine has been developed, and the threat of COVID-19 still looming over us, thousands more will needlessly die.

This is, by every definition of the word, criminal.

We can go back to doing our bloody stupid Brexit once this is all done – it’s going to happen, and we’ve all accepted that. That does not mean that it has to happen at the expense of our fellow countrymens’ lives.

Anyway. I wasn’t meant to write about Brexit.

I’ve ordered my banjo. I’m looking forward to being a posher, less funny Billy Connolly, or a British, less funny Steve Martin, both of whom are brilliant banjo players. In fact, it was Martin’s recent upload Banjo Balm that finally made me decide to pick it up myself.


In other news, isolation is made exponentially better with dogs. For those of you without dogs, don’t worry – there will soon be a time where you can go outside and pet dogs again. For now, here is a picture of ours, blissfully ignorant of any isolation or virus.

And a rather uncomfortable Mr Monkey.

Something Good

It has to be the clapping, doesn’t it. I do despair about our country sometimes, but only because the only things we ever hear about are in the media. The media is a business, and bad news sells. I understand this.

But, sometimes, we are reminded of how wonderful the vast, vast majority of us are.

And even though we, as a country, are about to hit a couple of really, really tough weeks, videos like the above remind me that, once it’s all done, we’ll bounce back.

We’re Britain, baby. We’re Great.

Thursday 26th March


My poor liver needs a break.

Look, this is a really tricky time. Mental health charities have seen the number of people asking for help skyrocket. Our previous ways of life, our routines, our normals – they’re all up the wall.

And I’ve been finding it hard, there’s no shame in admitting it. Being away from my partner and my friends has been tough. But take it from me, dear reader – solace is not found at the bottom of a glass of whisky.

Nor is it found at the bottom of the third glass of whisky, either.

So, it’s time to find a new normal. For me, this means yoga, reading, writing and being outside. It also means changing my long-standing practice of having boozed-up political chats with my mum every time I see her. By the end of the lockdown I’ll have found a way to bring about world peace but at the expense of Scotland’s entire reserves being dry.

And I just can’t do that to the Scots.

And it’s worth noting, among the doom and gloom of rising death counts, that there is considerable cause for optimism, too. When the world is on fire, it’s tempting to abandon sensibility. But the world, while shaken, is showing some fantastically encouraging signs.

For a start, huge strides towards finding a vaccine, medicines that will combat the worst symptoms of the virus, and testing kits are being made daily. It’s nothing short of a medical marvel.

Also, when the Health Secretary, Matt Hancock, asked for an army of 250,000 volunteers to help the NHS, he had to triple the target to 750,000 because so many people signed up.

And there continue to be good guys all over the gaff. Wild Bean Cafes are keeping open for NHS staff and lorry drivers to provide free breakfasts, for example. Little things like this go a long way to ensure that our doctors and nurses who are being pushed to breaking point can keep going a little longer.

So, even though times are tough at the moment, there’s always a reason to smile.

That being said, it’s also ok to crack open a beer or two. The government seems to agree, considering the fact that off-licenses have now become a part of the list of “essential” shops that are to remain open.

Good old Britain. That “Keep Calm and Carry On” spirit, fuelled by gin.

So what am I saying here? I’m not sure. On the one hand, try not to get through this period of uncertainty and isolation by getting plastered all the time. On the other, a little self-medication, within reason, is not just fine, it’s approved by the Prime Minister himself.

Maybe I’ll leave it to the booze companies themselves for a pithy summary.

Please drink responsibly.

In other news, I’m going to learn how to play the banjo. Spare a moment’s thought for the dogs.

Something Good

I adore wacky, Simpsons-esque “conveyor-belt” videos. And this one is absolutely superb.

Wednesday 25th March


Goodbye, London.

I’ve run away. Faced with spending weeks alone, in my flat, staring at the television (and killing Nazis) or moving back to my childhood home, walking dogs and having company, it was a no brainer (I’ve also brought my PlayStation with me to continue killing Nazis).

Frankly, if I had to endure my neighbours playing Them Changes by Thundercat at full volume one more time, I swear to god I’d have burned my entire neighbourhood down.

So, what of life in the sticks? Well, for a start, I now have a garden, and I’ve never appreciated it more in my life. Local shops are giving about as many f*cks to social distancing rules as I do to personal hygiene (a reluctant recognition of its necessity and a feeble attempt to maintain it). And the police seem to be stopping people from going to wide open spaces.

Despite it being government policy that you are allowed to go to wide open spaces for exercise and to walk dogs.

I don’t know. Strange times. They’re doing what they think is best, I suppose.

Government policy for couples who don’t live together is also that they either stay apart, or move in together. I imagine this will end rather a lot of relationships.

The ones that move in together, I mean.

I also wonder how on earth you’re supposed to date in the times of lockdown. I imagine that much of the subtle flirtation of body language is lost when you’re trying to reconnect your Zoom call for the third time.

Good luck to all you singletons out there. At least PornHub premium is now free.

…Or so I hear.

Something Good

This is extremely positive news – the main reason for our isolation is to try and ensure that hospitals aren’t overflowing. For one of the key medical advisors to the government saying that the predictions are positive is a big deal.

Stay at home, everyone. It really does save lives.

Tuesday, March 24th


And there you have it, folks.

The man who looks like a jelly-packed haystack has told us, in no uncertain terms, that we are all now under house arrest.

This is probably a bit unfair. Say what you will about Johnson (and I have, and will), but his speech last night was statesmanlike, clear, and decisive. It was also absolutely extraordinary, and something that will be in the history books a few years from now.

This time last year, I wrote that Brexit would be in the history books. How I long for a good prorogation. What a merry jape that was.

But here we are – confined to our homes for at least three weeks. Allowed out once a day for dog-walks, exercise, or vital shopping. No religious worship, no weddings, no public gatherings of more than two people. No shops open other than those which are vital.

I’d happily lose Sports Direct mugs to see that festering toad out on his arse.

And bike shops, apparently.

A quick aside here just to emphasise how much of a spluttering chode Mike Ashley is. In case you missed it, Sports Direct “mogul” Ashley, owner of Newcastle United, sent out a message to all his employees after Johnson’s speech saying that his shops would remain open regardless, endangering the lives of both staff and potential customers, all in the name of dollah.

Thankfully, he’s been forced to shut down today. I’m glad that people like Caitlain Moran are making lists of companies like Sports Direct, Britannia Hotels and Wetherspoons for us all to hold to account once this is all done.

Let’s see if we can’t bankrupt Ashley through boycotting, eh? The thinnest of silver linings to a pretty horrendous cloud, no doubt, but a lining nonetheless. I’d happily lose Sports Direct mugs to see that festering toad out on his arse.

Pustulating ballsack of a man.

Same with Tim Martin. Knobhead-Einstein-looking gotch stain.


Why has it come to this? Well, we were asked to remain at home last week. And we didn’t. We were told to avoid pubs and restaurants. And we didn’t. We were told to only go out if it was absolutely necessary. And we went out regardless.

So it is that we’re now housebound under threat of fine or detention by the police.

Which, to be honest, is ok with me. I was adhering to as many of the rules as I could anyway, because I’m not a utter pisspot. I was also symptomatic last week, so didn’t really go out at all.

But lots of people did. The coronavirus has shone a light on a pretty sizeable part of society that thinks it knows better than the rest of us, and cocksurely ambles out into the world to “Keep Calm and Carry On” and “Show that virus that it won’t stop us.”

No, Sandra, because that virus isn’t a terrorist. “Showing it who’s boss” is like shouting at a hurricane to piss off back to where it came from – it’s not going to help, you should be inside, and you’re endangering the lives of those around you by failing to fire more than two brain cells.

But, unfortunately, the blame can’t lie solely at the feet of the Sandras and Steves out there. Over the last two years, public discourse has been reduced from civilised debate to,

“My team is better than yours because [reasons],”

“No, my team is better than yours because [opposite reasons].”

repeat ad nauseam.

Johnson’s message last night was good enough and strong enough to bring a bit of unity back

It’s a sorry state of affairs, but the ‘hunker down’ mentality has slithered its way into the great British psyche to almost Inception-like levels. So much so, in fact, that when a heavily mentally-ill man is shot in the head after stabbing people in London Bridge, much of the national response is still,

“Look at how shit his team are, they’ll never beat my team,” not,

“How on earth was this allowed to happen and what can we do to prevent it?”

The Brexit nightmare changed British society, and we are now seeing some of the repurcussions from it. Thankfully, however, I think that Johnson’s message last night was good enough and strong enough to make people think twice and bring a bit of unity back. I hold little to no respect for the man, (at least, before this crisis I didn’t), but I respect the office, as must we all.

It really is our duty to stay inside now. It’s not exactly hard.

Although it wouldn’t be Britain without the weather becoming glorious at the exact moment we can’t enjoy it.

So anyway, here we are. I, for one, have been relishing the opportunity to get back into gaming. Nothing like attacking Nazis with a hatchet to help keep your mind off wanting to venture out into the sunshine.

I’m also using this opportunity to grow a beard. Not ZZ-Top, chin-to-knackers kind of beard, but perhaps a sort of ‘isolated-fisherman-chic”.

I’m not sure how my girlfriend will take it.

Which reminds me, what the hell do we do about haircuts? We’re all going to come out of this looking like we’re extras on the set of the original Wall Street.

Oh well. Isolated fisherman chic it is.

I’ve only just realised how noisy my neighbours are. This might be a long three weeks.

Something Good

Two today, you lucky things, you. The first, political. A Tory MP has called on his government to invite the new leader of the opposition (most likely Keir Starmer) to work with them on the coronavirus crisis once appointed.

While this may not yet happen, it is a sign that the mood of politics might be shifting from tribalism to constructivism. That, we can all agree, is an excellent step in the right direction.

Second, one of my favourite ever animals. Warning: extremely explicit language.

Good luck in lockdown, everyone.



2020. New decade, new me.

I was at my girlfriend’s house for New Year’s Eve. As the fireworks on the TV denoted the end of the incredibly wearisome 2010s, I decided that it was time for a fresh start. 2020 would be my springboard. My annus mirabilis. The year where everything, finally, came together, and I would push on to fulfil my potential and take the world by storm.

2020. I was ready.

It is now March, and I am rationing my bowel movements due to lack of toilet paper.

Welcome to Cabin Fever – The Coronavirus Diaries.

Let’s start with what we know.

The world is locked down. Y’know, in case you missed it.

A novel virus, named COVID-19, has swept across the world. We don’t know exactly where it came from, but know that ground zero was a live animal market in Wuhan, China and has something to do with bats. It has neither been confirmed nor denied that vampires are involved.

There is no vaccine, and it is far more potent than a standard flu virus. Estimates put the mortality rate at around 1% – the vast majority of deaths being among those who are elderly and/or have underlying health conditions.

And 1% might not seem very much. But if 80% of the world is infected, as some predictions say, that is 6.2bn people. 1% of that is 6.2m people. And, as health services and hospitals become overwhelmed, there is every chance that the end figure might be more than 1%.

It is an unprecedented global health emergency and an epochal moment in our planet’s history.

And so the world as we know it has effectively been put on hold. First China, then countries across Europe, and now the UK and US – all have, in turn, shut down their societies to halt the spread of the virus.

Draconian measures are being implemented in many of the worst-affected cities, with fines being issued to those who leave their houses without a good reason. In Italy, some mayors have taken matters into their own hands.

Please, for the love of God, watch this video.

Sadly, we haven’t even seen the real damage of the coronavirus yet. The death toll will explode over the coming weeks, and the terrible scenes we have seen in Italy will likely spread across the world.

A vaccine is still a year or so away. Until that point, we are all vulnerable. While we are vulnerable, we are to remain isolated.

And this is where we find ourselves.

What of the UK?

Compared to many of our European neighbours, the UK’s response to the coronavirus has been remarkably relaxed. Last week, however, the landscape dramatically changed almost by the hour.

The first COVID-19 cases in the UK were two Chinese students back in January. The first death in the UK from the coronavirus was on the 5th March. On the 11th of March, the WHO declared a pandemic.

March has also seen Italy be absolutely decimated by the coronavirus. Their health system is already at capacity, and deaths are in the thousands. France and Spain are at critical risk, too. All have implemented strict quarantines, imposing curfews and banning all public gatherings.

And yet, this time last week, the UK was still open for business.

Not for long. To give you a quick timeline:

  • Monday 16th: Prime Minister Boris Johnson began his daily press briefings. He advised everyone to work from home where possible and to avoid pubs, restaurants and other public gatherings. Introverts quietly smug. 55 deaths.
  • Tuesday 17th: Rishi’s Massive Package. The Chancellor Of The Exchequer, Rishi Sunak, announced a £330bn funding package to keep businesses afloat. Such spending is practically unheard of, especially by a Tory government. Right-wing commentators lament UK’s rapid switch to communism. 71 deaths (+16).
  • Wednesday 18th: As of Friday the 20th March, all schools are to shut. Children of “key workers,” such as nurses, delivery drivers or supermarket staff will still go to school. These children will forever be known by their peers as “the unluckiest children ever.” 104 deaths (+33).
  • Thursday 19th: Pubs and restaurants remain open, and remain full. Non-stupid people question their faith in humanity’s intelligence. 144 deaths (+40).
  • Friday 20th: Government orders the closure of all pubs, restaurants, gyms, theatres and other public areas. Also announced that it will pay 80% of workers’ salaries who are at risk of being laid off. Magic money tree located. 177 deaths (+33).
  • Saturday 21st: NHS secures deal with private hospitals for beds and other resources. Sunny weather means packed parks, beaches and open-air spaces up and down the country. Sun’s out, mugs out. 233 deaths (+56).
  • Sunday 22nd: Boris Johnson warns that if people continue to ignore self-isolation advice, stricter measures will follow. Increasingly clear that Johnson commands the same level of authority as a trainee zookeeper in a monkey enclosure. 281 deaths (+49).

And here we are. London faces the real threat of lockdown, we are all to work from home if possible, and only to leave the house for exercise, shopping for essentials, or vital trips.

We find ourselves in uncharted territory. So I have decided to document it.

I’m Matt. I’m 29 years old. I work in public sector comms as a freelancer, and write satirical politics blogs.

Everything about that sentence makes me sound like a bellend.

I work from home most of the time, so self-isolation is actually not all that different from my norm. What is different is the lack of any pubs to go and drink in, pressure to avoid seeing my partner and friends, and a 67 year-old mother who lives outside London that I’m now not supposed to go and see.

I now have an excuse to not go to the gym, though, so it’s not all bad news.

It’s been interesting to watch those around me who are used to commuting into work acclimatise to my lifestyle. I worry that many will go full-on, smeared-in-jam-and-barking-at-traffic insane.

I also may well have already had the coronavirus, having had a number of symptoms last week and self-isolating for 7 days. For me, they weren’t too bad – but please remember that not everyone will be so lucky if you’re feeling blasé about your chances.

Supposedly, we are in lockdown until the summer, where the hope is that the warmer weather will slow the spread of COVID-19. However, with Glastonbury now cancelled, summer is basically cancelled, too. I hope Paul McCartney is self-isolating somewhere completely sterile and devoid of anything that might increase his heart rate.

The Emirates stadium, perhaps.

Normality is completely on hold. Venues are closing doors and airlines are grounded. Weddings, birthdays, trips of lifetimes… all gone. It goes without saying that this is the right course of action, but I worry about how sustainable it all is. Especially in London, my home.

Londoners are a strange bunch, you see. Capable of massive feats of kindness and compassion, but also thoroughly unwilling to make eye-contact on public transport. There’s a sort of glorious liberty to London life, where anyone can do what they want so long as they respect the unwritten rules – stand on the right; mind the gap; and see it, say it, sort it.

But the rules have changed dramatically. We are now to practice “social distancing,” or remaining at least 2m away from each other, for the foreseeable future. For context, 2m is exactly the height of Jeremy Clarkson, and I would also recommend remaining at least one Jeremy Clarkson away from Jeremy Clarkson at all times.

Maintaining distance from others is harder than you would think. Perhaps the most confusing problem is that the government’s current guidelines say that we can go outside to exercise, walk the dog, or pick up essential supplies. Cue everyone going outside over the weekend, enjoying the glorious sunshine.

Also cue everyone getting dogs.

But the thing is, if you maintain a 2m distance from those around you, you’re not breaking the rules. So, do we go outside or not? For my money, being permanently trapped inside, especially with sunny weather outside, is akin to torture – it is vital that we all get the chance to go outside at least once a day…

But, if the rumours are to be believed, we are about to have a far more stringent set of rules enforced upon us. Isolation might not be just advisory for long.

So, there’s a real chance we’re all going to go stir-crazy. I’ve started this diary as a means to not only make records of things as they happen, but also to entertain those who read it and help to stave off the boredom.

This has been a particularly long one to kick things off, but I’m hoping to have a 3-5 minute read up and running by lunchtime every day. I hope that, at the very least, this brings a bit of levity to some pretty grim circumstances.

I’ll also try to find one uplifting thing per day, and I’m going to start you off with a doozy. Follow the comedian, Alistair Green, on Twitter. Do it now, please.

Best of luck, everyone. We’re all in this together, and I hope this diary brings a modicum of happiness at the very least.