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My Covid diary


March 2020: The BBC, et al.

I stopped watching TV around ten years ago, due to the brainwashing propaganda, the leftist, biased output of the National Broadcaster, the jerky camera movement, fast cutting, flashing lights, all of which nauseated me.

The roots of my contempt for the BBC had formed years earlier. You may recall the ruse of the ‘Conservative’ Party in the early-1990s to massage the unemployment figures artificially lower by means of the Employment Training Scheme (ET), or Extra Tenner (on top of your dole) as it was known colloquially. Struggling to find gainful employment due to a bad reference from the Civil Service (skipped off to France without working my notice), I found myself on hard times. The Job Centre sent me for an ET interview at the BBC, to work in the recordings library at the local radio station, an ideal job for me. The snooty interviewer looked down her nose at my résumé and my coarse Yorkshire accent and said, ‘Oh no, I don’t think so, not at the BBC.’ Lady, you did me a big favour. To have been beholden to such an insidious institution would have crushed my anarchist spirit.

I was thus hardened and well-prepared for the events which commenced in the spring of 2020, the Cult of Covid. When the Government-mandated, Ofcom-policed Covid propaganda onslaught began, I already had immunity to it.

May 2020: The Big Clap

Applauding one’s own virtual house arrest due to the hysterical panic and incompetence of the authorities did not seem to me to be a rational response. I dreaded the approach of the 8pm Thursday ritual. I took to leaving the house at 7.30 so that I could be in the countryside by 8. The problem was that I could still hear the commotion. So could the sheep. Around two minutes to 8 the horrendous noise would begin, growing louder, culminating in terrible loud bangs as fireworks were set off. An entire field of sheep panicked and ran into a corner of a field seeking safety. ‘Local sheep’ being the original lyric of the poem below. I later changed it to ‘Cats and dogs’ to give it a broader, more cosmopolitan appeal.

On one of said Thursday evenings, in need of food and booze, I thought I would have time to get to the supermarket and back before the unpleasantness began. I was mistaken. I found myself carrying two heavy shopping bags, entering a long, terraced street, with doors directly on to the pavement on both sides. Well, I thought, they won’t all come out, will they? I had made it barely 50 yards into the street when every door began to open. A cacophony of noise, pots and pans banging together, an elderly chap playing a trombone as if possessed, all worshipping the new State-sanctioned religion, ‘OUR NHS!’ I was minded to say to them, ‘You are all completely insane.’ However, being vastly outnumbered, the safe passage of two bottles of good French Pinot Noir took precedence. These poor people are clearly suffering from mass hypnosis.

July 2020: ‘Covid deaths’

I call out the plumber to fix yet another breakdown of the combi-boiler, forced upon me by John ‘Two Jags’ Prescott. The plumber tells the story of his friend hospitalised due to a motorcycle crash. He died of his injuries, but not before testing positive for Covid. Cause of death? Yes, that’s right. The death certificate stated: Covid-19.

October 2020: Recycling

Minding my own business, doing my regular civic duty of visiting the bottle bank to recycle the vast quantity of empty beer, wine and spirits bottles I was accumulating at an alarming rate, I reached over to place a beer bottle in the receptacle marked Brown Glass. My hand may have briefly strayed into the designated Two Metre Zone. My head, whence I was breathing, was well outside said Zone. ‘WHERE’S YOUR SOCIAL DISTANCING!! TWO METRES!!’ the newspaper recycling lunatic screamed. Somewhat taken aback, I laughed at him. ‘DON’T LAUGH!! YOU’RE A ****HEAD!!’ Still laughing, I walked off, my jaw dropped in disbelief. It was fortunate for him that I was still employed and thus concerned about losing my job due to a potential court appearance for GBH if the confrontation had escalated. Otherwise I would have been sorely tempted to punch him on the nose. What is wrong with these people?

December 2020: Masks

While selecting some vegetables at an outdoor market stall, I am accosted by a masked man with a confrontational look in his eye. ‘WHERE’S YOUR MASK?’ he prodded, encroaching ever further into the Two Metre Zone, his filthy, soggy, blue rag slipping down and off his nose. ‘I’m outside’, I replied. ‘WELL I THINK IT’S DISGUSTING!! WHY AREN’T YOU WEARING A MASK?’ ‘Firstly, because they don’t work and secondly, because I’m outside.’ He sloped off, confused.

November 2021: Stand In The Park

‘I’ve come to join the Resistance.’ A ray of hope, meeting people who question the Government and media narrative. Highly recommended for those who don’t believe the hype. You can find your nearest Sunday 10am meet-up here.

Incensed by the sacking of care home staff for declining the experimental ‘vaccines’, the Government’s threat to sack ‘unvaccinated’ NHS staff, the reckless jabbing of children and the introduction of ‘vaccine’ passports, which clearly constitute medical apartheid, I attend my first protest march. A great experience, thousands marching in good-natured, peaceful protest. I am thus inspired to write two more verses of the poem. In December, I read it at the Stand In The Park. I now share it with you here. I recorded the first four verses as a song in May 2021. Here is the link to the YouTube video:.

Lockdown Blues

How can one work at home? All the neighbours mowing the lawn
Wearing onesies in the street, could they not be more discreet?
Bonfires ‘cos the tip is shut, illegal dumping on the up
Empty buses run on time, sunbathing is a crime
Lockdown blues. Cancelled cruise. Don’t need shoes. Turned to booze.

Wait in line for something to eat, toilet roll is a treat
Big clap on a Thursday night, gives the cats and dogs a fright
Police say don’t exercise, stay at home and eat more pies
Ironing can be fun, you get arthritis if you run
Lockdown blues. Endless queues. Blown a fuse. Need a snooze.

Rainbows in the window pane, peer outside, sunshine again
Hopscotch chalk on empty pavements, make your own entertainment
Wash your hands, change your plans, do not visit foreign lands
Give assistance, keep your distance, what’s the meaning of existence?
Lockdown blues. QR tattoos. Human zoos. Losing my screws.

Hibernation, vegetation, antisocial isolation
Would you like to join my bubble? Be nearby or be in trouble
Walk the dog around the park, only if it’s after dark
Lifts the spirits, tones the derrière, life is merrier with a terrier
Lockdown blues. Dismal news. No hairdos. Or barbecues.

Mandatory medication, segregated population
Discrimination, separation, cybernetic sanitation
Nappies steaming up your glasses, breathing your own exhaust gases
Failed your social history classes, scrap your apps and eat your passes
Lockdown blues. Seditious views. Coercing kids. Is child abuse.

Hysteria and fear created, permission to embrace dictated
Discovered drowned, decapitated, cause of death ‘Covid-related’
Hygiene neurosis, health psychosis, suffering from mass hypnosis
Ditch your muzzles, free your noses, take the time to smell the roses
Lockdown blues. Genetic stews. Our right to question. And refuse.

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Tinderella is a former accidental academic, now trying his hand at songwriting and fomenting sedition. Enquiries can be sent to

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