It’s a BIG day today. Humongous. Yeah, its July 4th, the day when any American with any sense will look at their president and rue the day that the British were cast from their shores. But there’s bigger things than Trump. Even bigger than Trump’s hair.

Because today represents the absolute and total distillation of everything we knew, we felt, we thought, we feared, we considered, about this entire, hateful ‘pandemic’, all condensed into one tiny place in time. It’s like a singularity in physics (or a black hole, ya higgoragmus), a point of infinite smallness yet almost infinite power.

And that point is where and when the pub opens.

We’ve all grown accustomed to the regular, confusing government ‘briefings’ telling us to ‘work, but from home, unless you have to, then go in, just to bring it home, unless you can’t then you can stay, for a while…’ And we’re all too familiar with the equation that cannot be solved. The one that has two contradictory variables, health and death on one side, versus the economy on the other. Boris’s Last Theorem. Maybe Rishi’s Last Theorem. Insoluble whoever’s it may be.

But we’ve come so far. To the point where 2 metres becomes one metre PLUS!!!! and we can meet in distanced groups. The end point of which is that today pubs, restaurants and bars can re-open. With limits and constraints obviously. Nothing in this entire crisis has ever been easy. And once more we have so many conflicting opinions. “It’s too soon”, say the health-obsessives, “should have done this weeks ago” says anyone who owns a pub/bar/restaurant. “It’ll lead to the dreaded SPIKE!!!” Say other people. Spikeaphobes.

Thus Boris has stated how today needs to be done in considered and careful manner, whilst his chancellor is imploring us ‘to go out to eat; FOR THE NATION!’.

But it will be fine. Because as everyone knows, opening the pubs with a very clearly defined set of complex but achievable regulations and precautions is fine and everyone will comply to their fullest.

It’s closing the pubs that’s the problem. 11 hours and 46 pints later. When two grossly obese, heavily tattooed drunks from Millwall proclaim their love for each other, when the fights break out, when the puking starts. How can you hold your best mate’s hair away from her mouth from even 1 metre plus? How will any kind of conga chain be organised down Carnaby Street? Can you catch the virus from people pissing in the street?

It’s a brave new world. Sadly, one in which my football team seems to be faring no better than in the last one.

Happy Independence Day

A xxxx