Andy Richardson: Waiting for the Brexicorn and now reaching for the soap

Having endured Storm Dennis and Storm Carolina – it wasn’t called that, but what’s an incorrectly-named storm between friends – I’m yearning for the good old days of narcissistic debate, divisiveness and malcontent. I’m growing misty-eyed for the days when we knew politicians were lying to us – the clue was this: they’d got open mouths and their lips were moving.

Whither Brexit, my old friend? Missing you. Missing you more. At least we knew where we were when we all hated one another for three solid years. We could rely on the arguments and nonsense, the patently untrue statements and dithering, the emergence of a handsome (only joking) ruffle-haired white knight who’d lead us all to the promised land before letting us know he was about to be a father on a day really bad stuff was happening in the news.

Brexit was a time when reason left these shores. It was the era in which normally-sane people lost their rag rather than engaging in rational debate. Campaigners gave up their careers and marriages so that they could shout at Parliamentarians in London. Politicians lied through their teeth – what’s new? – about all the money that we’d save and the way it would flood the NHS. And frauds and charlatans from both sides of the debate told us how our lives would be ruined – or, from the other camp, how we’d all get a free platinum unicorn with every vote cast. I’m still waiting for mine, incidentally. The unicorn, that is. It’s coming soon, right? The unicorn. Give me the unicorn. Uni-uni-uni-unicorn. Want. Now. Brexicorn. Where is it?

During the sunshine years of Brexit, at least we weren’t panic-buying toilet rolls. Women in Australian supermarkets weren’t beating each other up over a 240-sheet roll of quilted paper. Those were the days. Nor were supermarkets putting up signs rationing Tesco homebrand pasta. Of all of the unpalatable products in the world, no one could have bet on Tesco running out of cheap-as-chips, flavourless starch. I’ve spent a week reflecting on the food shortages and I still don’t get it. I mean, if you’re going to self-isolate or be off sick for two weeks, you’d want to stock up on the essentials: a really good box set and 12 tubs of Ben & Jerry’s. The last thing you want when you can’t go to the shops is a daily diet of poor quality pasta.

The public information campaign about coronavirus has focused on two things, it would appear. The first is encouraging us to wash our hands, tidy our desks, keep things on the straight and narrow. And, having invested in tubs of sanitary wipes, sung Happy Birthday twice every time I visit the gents and purged my desk of old papers, crisp wrappers and business cards for The Classic Car Hire Company, I’m frankly disgusted with my pre-corona self. Why didn’t I deep clean before? How did I ever manage not to foster germs that led to a contagion?

The second is avoiding panic. Keep calm and corona on, is the message. Sadly, that memo hasn’t reach the nation’s national newspapers, who each day carry a one-sentence ‘Don’t lose it, guys’ line from some medical officer or other, while selling fear and loathing by the pound. Run out of toilet roll? You will soon, unless you panic buy. Got any hand gel? Well you’d better clear the shelves of Asda in that case.

Corona is making unlikely heroes of some. Who’d have imagined Mr Charisma(less) himself, Matthew John David – but you can call him ‘Elvis’ – Hancock, would become a poster-boy for 2020. The acutely intelligent politico who studied at both Oxford and Cambridge has become the voice of reason. It’s a turn of events as unlikely as building an 882ft ship called the Titanic, storking it into an iceberg at 22.5 knots before realising it was only equipped with enough life boats to carry half of the 3,000 passengers and crew. Oh. Hang on.

In the weeks and months ahead, coronavirus will encroach ever-more-closely into our lives. And while most will realise it was nothing to get too het up about, for a small percentage it will be devastatingly severe. Which brings us back to The Clean Regime.

It’s helpful to know that by taking a few simple steps we can reduce our risk of infection considerably. So as appealing as the prospect of 12 tubs of ice cream and a box set might be, it’s probably more sensible to wash, wash and wash again. And besides, I’m quite enjoying this new era of cleanliness. Now pass me the soap.