Taking the piss
I mean, in these challenging times when billions are spent trying to cope with a pandemic, is it very wise of the DLRCOCO to spend vast amounts of money on expensive robotics to remind the walkers of the East Pier that there are no public toilet facilities available?
Talking about taking the piss, we’ve finally made it. WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, my friend (OF THE WORLD).
I kid you not. From today’s Irish Times:
Ireland has the highest Covid-19 infection rate in the world after more than 45,700 cases were recorded in the State last week.
The disease spread faster in Ireland than in any other country in the seven days to January 10th, with 1,323 daily cases recorded per million people, according to data compiled by Johns Hopkins University in the US and the non-profit organisation Our World in Data.
Wow. Some reversal of situation. From pretty much teacher’s pet for waves 1 and 2 to irresponsible hooligan, and in a very short space of time too. But why o why?!
Because of the Big C. Ireland is overall a pretty docile, easy going nation, with a small, well-respected police force. If the government tells us to do something, overall we will be fairly compliant. Without armed police instilling fear and loathing in the population. Without popular uprising. People take it to heart to work for the common good.
Except... when it comes to Christmas. You don’t mess with the Big C. While all the other European nations actually increased restrictions around gatherings on Christmas Day, the Irish government knew that there would heads on spikes unless the green light was granted for the annual Christmas festival. Christmas in France or Spain or Germany, it’s a day (or mostly the night-before-the-day-after). But in Ireland it usually is a three week affair with a frenzy of shopping and drinking and socialising and drinking and not working and drinking and overeating and drinking and exchanging gifts (mostly bottles of something) and drinking.
This year, the three week festival was shortened to a modest two week bender (which is still 14 times more than in Bavaria).
We had all been so good. So focused. So righteous. So pleased with ourselves. We did deserve a break. Surely, the airborne droplets take a break for Christmas too, don’t they?
Parties were organised. Indoors. Even the keenest of drinkers don’t last long knacker-drinking in Ireland in December. We were on a break. A particular sporting association, which has been granted a special status since the birth of the State (whose initial stands for Great Airborne Abilities) has on a number of documented occasions (my colleague L has been keeping tabs!) been particularly careless, with several instances of gatherings involving sweet shag all distancing. Because it was Christmas.
And now the chickens have come home to roost.
Because it no longer is Christmas. And apparently the droplets were not taking a vacation but flying merrily, mingling in the embraces celebrating six-in-a-row, in the barely illegal Christmas gatherings between mates, because we were on a break, before meeting the grannies and aunties on Christmas Day, because surely, it’s Christmas, it’s sacred.