Going Viral – The Blogalypse 1 – Covfefe

I have had a very slight dry cough for the last 2-3 days. André too. We’re fine for now, but each time one of us fails to resist the tickle in our throat that manifests in an embarrassed covfefe noise (NOW we know what that meant) stifled into the crook of an elbow as instructed by the health authorities, the other one’s eyes widen like a startled owl and we tell each other off …’Stop that! Stop that now this instant.’

So on the off chance I am experiencing my last few weeks on Earth, I decided that if indeed I am shortly due to drown in a pool of my own phlegm then I have quite a lot to say about that before I go. I’m rather annoyed about it all, to be honest, and I’d like the chance to carve my little rant into the passages of time and take you on a personal journey with me. It’s a little morsel of immortality to leave something behind as I go, and if I don’t go yet…well…then it was a form of much needed stress relief along the way.

Now dear reader, I’m not arrogant enough to think anyone from my current time in history particularly needs to read any more about the bloomin Coronavirus, when we’ve all had quite enough of it on every news stream, TV show and variation of social media going. But I had this thought yesterday that perhaps the people of the future (assuming humanity survives and along with it some archive of the internet where my witterings will be saved long after I fail to pay for my own digital bills), may value a more personal and less statistical/medical view on the grisly events that are currently playing out.

It even occurred to me, in a moment of wonderful dreamy self-delusion, that my angsty ramblings might help to form part of the curriculum for the future Social History GCSE in the year 2075, along with an analysis of “Love Island’ and the Kardashians. Kind of like how when I did my own GCSEs I was forced to read about the plight of children whose hands were ripped off by ‘Spinning Jennys’ in the early industrialisation of Britain and then made to write articles about their lives to demonstrate both my historical knowledge and developing empathy skills. Is it so wrong then to dream that I might lure in a whole new audience to my semi-ridiculous self-absorbed drivel about the spreading of a deadly virus and then have them segue randomly into the rest of my blog entries to discover my completely personal journey into why my pubic hair is straight, or what it feels like to have a coffee enema? Maybe future teens will not bat an eyelid or wince even slightly at such things. For all I know there could be colonic irrigation GCSE by then. This, my readers, is what you call an opportunity. If one is house-bound, bed-ridden, or in one of the most currently doomed industries in the world right now, it’s important to find something positive to do besides watch Netflix’s entire back catalogue and masturbate while crying.

Anyway, the first thing I had to consider was what to call my blog or rather the subtitle for my existing blog which is hosted (very kindly) on a friend’s server at present and I’m certainly not going to pay to separate it out with its own domain name while I’m living on the last of my life savings as the arts industry I depend on for food crumbles into the dust.

My first working title was ‘Live from the Apocalypse’ as it had a real authoritative zing to it…but then I thought the word ‘live’ could be a little triggering and perhaps ironic if I do suddenly cark it and people are reading this when I’m no longer alive. Then I thought ‘Plague Blog’ had a punchier ring to it, or perhaps ‘Plague 2020‘. But it doesn’t really feel like a plague (yet). Not enough pus and boils for plaguiness (see, that’s one silver lining in our mutual cloud already!).

‘Blog from the Bog’ would describe where I do most of my thinking and at least some of my writing, but I wasn’t sure if my international audience would understand the reference or indeed the relevance…because it isn’t particularly relevant where I am (I’m in Kent, England, in case you didn’t know, and no my knickers are not currently around my ankles as I type this particular chapter of the story). ’50 shades of Phlegm’ is definitely a contender for a running title. I’m a big fan of silent ‘g’s and childish mental images. And ‘The Blogalypse’ is my other favourite. I suspect someone else will have already taken these anyway…I haven’t checked. I can’t be arsed. We can battle out copyright and trademark issues if we (that’s me and any rival blog writers) make it to ‘the other side’.

I should mention quickly that this blog very nearly didn’t happen. I’m 9 months behind updating my blog about my adventurous travels last summer in Australia, and owed myself some serious writing time to catch up on that from my travel notebooks. I gave my Facebook friends the vote – Oz or virus. To my amazement the overwhelming majority wanted me to blog our collective suffering and angst. There’s something rather wonderful and flattering about that… I think. Or is it that people want to hear about other people’s travels about as much as people in the 1970s used to ‘enjoy’ being forced to watch slide shows of their neighbours’ holidays to Marbella whilst enduring cubes of cheese and pineapple on a cocktail stick and pretending to find the 78th slide of Jim in his waist-high belted beige swimming trunks majorly fascinating and impressive just to be polite. I don’t know. Hopefully I’ll survive to write about both things, but given the choice, you voted for my take on our collective impending doom. So here it is, my darlings, here it comes for as long as I have strength and headspace to type.

In the meantime, before I get the chance to post my next set of thoughts, please send me your opinions in the comments box below as to what the blog should be called. ‘The Blogalypse’ or ‘Fifty Shades of Phlegm’ or make your own suggestions. I’m no diva, I welcome your input (although reserve the right to completely ignore it in the same manner that as a kind of adult I reserve the right to ignore my parents’ teachings about not sticking my finger in the peanut butter jar and licking it). But vote away. It will make me feel a little less lonely while André, Teddy Spaghetti the dog and I self-isolate at home. Until next time…over and out, and good luck to all of us.

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