Or lockdown level 4 as we call it here in South Africa.
Unlike the old Pop Will Eat Itself classic referenced in the title of this post I can’t even scoot off to the drive through and order Big Mac and Fries to go, although theoretically I could probably arrange it via WhatsApp or some other medium to eventually arrive in a lukewarm box of misery.
Speaking of misery, I sampled de-alcoholised white wine this week and I can safely say that I would rather trap my testicles (repeatedly) in a car door than let that stuff anywhere near my face again. It tasted like the fun police had got hold of a bottle of normal wine and then shoved it into the teleport machine from The Fly along with a badger’s arse. What came out the other side arrived in a wine bottle and that’s where the similarities between it and a bottle of wine ended. One day when I end up in a nice lava filled suburb in the seventh circle of hell I’ll no doubt be drinking it while being forced to listen to Celine Dion on replay, but until then it remains sink fodder.
That said, it could be worse.
You may have noticed my dear friend Alarm in the picture at the top of this post. My early warning system for when the booze free conditions inevitably lead to my stockpiles running low.
No, I’m not talking about offing myself in some incredibly theatric way with the salad spinner, I’m talking about the bottle of Bells.
If things get so bad that Alarm Bells has to be opened than we’re already doomed.
It sits there in the cupboard, lurking like the shit car in the distance on every Top Gear road trip challenge. Unwanted, unloved, un…
After 63 days of personal lockdown, 50 of which have been with a ban on alcohol sales, I can feel it hiding there in the shadows, waiting with the patience of Death, knowing that eventually all other options will eventually run out. It will outlive the pineapple cider fad and it knows I’ll probably draw the line at meths and a slice of bread.
If has no voice and yet I hear it endlessly tolling.
By day 100 I picture myself sitting alone in a room clattering away at a keyboard in a dressing gown (me, not the keyboard although it would be a nice touch) endlessly striking down the phrase all work and no BELLS makes nik a dull boy.
Give that man a Bells? Fuck that. Give me back our craft brewers, wine industry and bottle stores. I’ll still stay at home, I’ll still wear a mask and I’ll still exercise for the 90 minutes of daylight hours you’ve graciously allowed us to leave our homes.
Shit, I’ll even pour you a whisky.