World Suicide Prevention Day: treating the disease

I don’t really know how to write this piece. In fact, I hesitated to write it at all because, until now, I’ve only shared these thoughts with a small handful of people, and it feels rather daunting laying it all out in public. I do so, however, in the hope that someone out there will find it helpful or illuminating, or at least that it will fulfil the ‘raising awareness’ remit of World Suicide Prevention Day.

I’ve suffered with depression and anxiety for a number of years. Looking back now, for a number of years longer than I dared to recognise it, which I guess is the same for most sufferers who grew up at a time when such things weren’t really discussed. Before the pandemic hit, I would characterise my illness as, I suppose, ‘intermittent and manageable’, but the past year-and-a-half has amplified it to an almost intolerable level. Where before I would have maybe two to three weeks of feeling, to a greater or lesser degree, fairly unpleasant, followed by the same period (or often longer) where I felt largely normal, over the past 18 months those periods of ‘remission’ have become fewer and further between, the depressive periods longer, deeper and more frequent. I now consider myself lucky if I get two or three days of feeling remotely human in between what feels like a virtually constant and crushing sense of despair.

I want to make it clear at this point that I don’t tell you this because I think I deserve your sympathy – I know I have it much easier than so many others have had it, and continue to have it, as this pandemic rages on. I’m not rich, but I’m reasonably financially secure. I don’t live in a house with an abusive partner, or with people who don’t accept me for who I am. I’m not cramped up in a tiny flat with no outdoor space, and I don’t have to make the unenviable choice between going into a non-Covid-secure workplace or not being able to pay my bills. In so many ways, I have it easy, which often only adds to the guilt I feel about being so deeply fucking miserable all the time. And I know, too, that this is patently ridiculous, that we don’t get to simply choose not to be depressed because our lives are, on most objective levels, pretty privileged.

I won’t bore you with the protracted details of why, as I see it, I feel the way I do, but suffice to say the unresolved emotional baggage of a late-out gay man in a climate where homophobic hate is becoming ever more commonplace, coupled with an extended period of being cut off from my community and the general anxiety surrounding this seemingly interminable Covid-19 hellscape, have left me in a pretty fragile condition. And I suppose you could argue that the continuation of this situation is now, at least in part, a thing I’m doing to myself. I’m vaccinated, virtually all restrictions have been lifted, and there’s nothing legally preventing me from re-connecting with my community and going about life as if all were normal. But it’s not normal. Cases, deaths and hospitalisations continue to rise. My son isn’t vaccinated and, by some estimates, one in seven young people who contract the virus are experiencing ‘Long Covid’ symptoms, with who-knows-what impact on their long-term development and overall health. I can’t just put the cue in the rack with the current landscape as it is, so I continue to sacrifice my own mental health for what I see as the greater good. None of which was inevitable, of course, but that’s a whole other article (and one I’ve possibly written at some point between January 2020 and now).

Anyway, getting to the point after quite a lot more introductory rambling than I had anticipated, I’ve now reached the stage where suicidal thoughts have become part of my daily experience. It started slowly, gradually, almost imperceptibly, and eventually emerged as a persistent and malevolent shadow lurking in the corner of my room. And every other room. I’d only had such thoughts on one occasion before the pandemic hit, when I was going through a particularly rough patch, but since January of this year, it’s become a recurring, almost perpetual theme. What began as the occasional troubling thought has grown into a thing I will think about at least once a week, and sometimes as much as several times a day.

Now, I don’t want to alarm anyone. I’m not planning to kill myself. I haven’t hurt myself, and I have no intention of doing so. At this stage, my relationship with suicidal ideation is fairly passive, mainly taking the form of thoughts like, “I can’t imagine dealing with this for another n years, wouldn’t it be easier if I just didn’t wake up tomorrow?” or “If I was going to do it, I wonder which way would be quickest/easiest/least painful.” I’m not in any immediate danger, but at the same time, I’m acutely aware that the line between, “Fuck me, I wish this could be over,” and, “I’m going to do something to make this be over,” probably isn’t as wide or as robust as we’d like it to be.

In the brief but merciful periods between these depressive episodes, I often feel foolish for even having had these thoughts. Again, looking at it through an objective lens, what reason do I have for feeling this way, with my comfortable existence and my loving, supportive family? I tell myself I will cease to entertain such risible notions in the future, and I mean to do so. Right up until the point I begin to entertain them again.

I don’t know what the answer to this is, so I’m sorry if you were looking for any kind of meaningful insight. I guess if we could reason away such destructive thoughts, no one would ever take their own lives. What I do know is that it helps to talk about it. If the people closest to me didn’t know how I was feeling, how could they look out for me? And if, as was the case when I was a child (or even a young man) no one ever spoke about such things publicly, how would anyone know they weren’t alone, that what they were feeling was not a sign of weakness or inadequacy, but a facet of mental ill-health shared by numerous others from all different walks of life.

Talking, though, however helpful it may be, is not enough. Whilst it’s undoubtedly true that anyone can suffer with depression or suicidal thoughts, it’s often a hell of a lot more likely for those who are in some way marginalised or oppressed. Rates of poor mental health and suicide in the LGBTQ+ community, for example, are still disproportionately high and, as shouldn’t need to be pointed out but invariably does, we’re not depressed and/or killing ourselves because we’re queer. We’re depressed and/or killing ourselves because of the way you, the cis-het majority, mistreat us, malign us and attack us for being queer. The same applies to anyone who suffers inequality or marginalisation: removing the inequality is no guarantee they won’t still suffer with mental illness, but having access to secure housing, sufficient food, affordable healthcare, inclusive education and the opportunity to exist without abuse or denigration, will certainly help to ameliorate its most damaging effects in a huge number of cases. 

So, yes, do speak to your friends. Check in on them, make sure they’re ok. That’s important, and you should definitely do that. But very often, it’s treating the symptom and not the disease. What will have an equal or even greater impact this World Suicide Prevention Day is resolving to fight inequality in all its forms, thereby helping to remove one of the greatest amplifiers of mental ill-health and preventing or mitigating a huge number of cases before someone becomes so desperate that they’re thinking of ending their own life. Let it be known that you support LGBTQ rights, black lives, a non-punitive welfare system, an accepting and welcoming approach to asylum and immigration, and any other policies and interventions that reduce the harms caused to those less fortunate than yourselves. And, most importantly, act accordingly. Vote accordingly. Take measurable, practical steps to embody those beliefs. It’s not an overstatement to suggest that one person’s actions can be the difference between life and death for someone who finds themselves in such a precarious position that suicide is a realistic option.

In closing, I’d like to say to anyone who has seen any part of themselves in this article, that you will almost inevitably read some hateful or negative responses in the replies (mainly because a lot of people exist who, perhaps understandably, think I’m a cunt). Please don’t take those horrible responses and apply them to yourselves. If you’re feeling in any way similar to how I’ve described, you are not weak, you are not self-pitying, and you are definitely not alone. Find someone to speak to. Please. You’d be surprised how willing many people are to listen. It almost certainly won’t solve your problems overnight, but there’s a decent chance it will help you avoid making a decision you can never unmake.

The racist abuse of football players is still, sadly, the ‘real England’

As the final penalty was saved on Sunday night and Buyako Saka stood forlornly, head in hands, for what must have seemed like an eternity before his teammates arrived to console him, I, too, found myself staring at the front of my own palms. Not because of the football – I had enjoyed the tournament, watched all but one of the games, and wanted this England team to do well, but I didn’t care about the result on the same visceral level as many ‘real’ football fans. No, the source of my despair was the fact that, of the five penalties the team had taken, two were scored (by white players) and three were missed (by black players). The skin colour of the players involved shouldn’t have entered my head, of course, but from the moment Marcus Rashford’s kick bounced off the post, the uneasy knot had already started to form in my stomach.

It was obvious what was about to be unleashed. That the nasty underbelly of this country was once again about to be laid bare was inescapable, inevitable, and Giorgio Chiellini had barely finished raising the trophy aloft before the n-word began to trend on Twitter.

What followed in the hours after the game was an unedifying mix of the most horrific racist abuse imaginable, bigoted dog-whistling from some Tory MPs and crocodile tears from others, attempts from some of those on the ‘right’ side of the argument to excuse, rationalise or minimise what we were seeing, and, somewhat unbelievably, The Sun trying to paint itself as an unshakable pillar of anti-racism. A mural of Marcus Rashford in Manchester was daubed with racist graffiti. Far-right shitheads, desperate for a few hundred likes, snidely tweeted about how he should have been practising penalties instead of sticking his nose into politics. Know your place, Marcus. Know your place.

What this final really exposed is what black people, immigrants and other minorities have known all along: that their acceptance in this country is entirely contingent on their success. That is to say, not their own personal success, or any achievement that may benefit them in some way, but those successes that prove useful or desirable to the straight, white, cis, nominally Christian majority.

This multicultural team of caring, decent and talented young men had just made it all the way to the final of a major tournament for the first time in 55 years. They had matched a world class team – the team most had fancied to win it at the outset – for two hours, and in the end, the only way they could be separated from the early tournament favourites was by way of a penalty shootout. Had a couple more of those penalty kicks been successful, they would have been legends, icons, lions. We’d have been waking up on Monday morning to headlines lauding the courageous exploits of Sir Marcus Rashford, Sir Buyako Saka, and Sir Jadon Sancho, holding them aloft as a great symbol of national pride. Instead, we woke up to yet another stark reminder of how you only get to be black in this country on terms strictly defined by white people.

It’s so endlessly alarming how quickly the mood can shift, how little a young black man has to do to fall from our affections. This is exactly the same group of individuals who have brought us so much hope and joy and excitement and exhilaration over the past month. The same lads who delivered the 4-0 win against Ukraine and the historic victory against Germany. The same lovely, pure-hearted boys who have conducted themselves so impeccably throughout, who have given football – Englishness, even – back to those to whom it had been a stranger for so long. They’re the same young men in whose reflected glory the louts who booed them taking the knee, smashed up Leicester Square, stormed the security gates at Wembley, kicked an Asian man in the head as he lay helpless on the ground and inserted flares into their rectums would have been so happy to bathe, but for two kicks of a football. Two kicks of a football, which rendered them worthless to us, and therefore worthless. Two kicks of a football: the difference in this country between being a national hero and a, well, you know what.

Further, maybe less obvious, examples of this phenomenon could be seen the following day, as various well-meaning outlets posted images of Marcus Rashford helping out at food banks and praising his work in forcing the government u-turn on free school meals last year, alongside messages decrying the racist abuse he was suffering. But this, too, misses the point. His charitable work is utterly irrelevant in this context. If he had never lifted a finger to help anyone but himself, it still wouldn’t be ok to racially abuse him, and we shouldn’t be expecting black people to be superhuman before we’ll treat them as human. Racist abuse is always wrong, whether it’s directed at a saintly figure like Rashford or an intrinsically evil one like Priti Patel. It’s just wrong.

Sadly, though, it is still, in 2021, a defining feature of English society, and it’s far from just a ‘football problem’ (though it is undoubtedly worse in football than anywhere else). There were those who were breaking their backs in the aftermath of all this horribleness to stress that it was just a ‘tiny minority’ of people who were ‘not real fans’. Not only is this patently incorrect, it feels like a very deliberate attempt to absolve ourselves – the good, decent people – of any responsibility for the fact that we live in an undeniably racist country.

In the wake of the Sarah Everard murder, I wrote a piece in which I compared misogyny to a pyramid, with the relatively few rapists and murderers of women sitting at the top, but propped up by those ever-wider layers of people underneath who carry out, actively condone or passively tolerate various lower-level acts of misogyny. The same analogy can be applied here.

Yes, it was a very small minority of the overall population who took to Twitter and Instagram to post monkey emojis and racial slurs on Sunday evening, but that is self-evidently far from the whole picture. We live in a country where the letters BLM – Black Lives Matter – are met with widespread derision and demonisation. We live in a country where the likes of Rod Liddle and Richard Littlejohn make a living as journalists, and very few in the profession ever bother to call out their consistently and nauseatingly vile content in any meaningful way. Indeed, the vast majority of the press in England is either overtly or surreptitiously racist, and huge swathes of the population gleefully purchase or click on their content, lapping up their divisive winks and nudges like so much runny dogshit. We live in a country where those seeking to escape violence, oppression and persecution are routinely vilified, criminalised and othered, and where parties who promise to deal with them harshly are more likely to achieve electoral success. We live in a country where ‘free speech warriors’ routinely take to the internet to shriek about ‘cancel culture’ because an episode of a 1980s sitcom that contains a racial slur is no longer broadcast, or because they’re not allowed to wear black face at the office party. We live in a country where people who are not white experience worse outcomes in terms of education, health, employment and criminal justice, and where a government-commissioned report dismisses any structural explanations for this, but instead uses racist tropes to shift the responsibility back onto the victims. We live in a country where the Prime Minister is a man whose pre-government career was characterised by the regular farting out of newspaper articles in which he compared Muslim women to bank robbers, referred to black children as ‘piccaninnies’ and argued that colonialism in Africa should never have ended. He now enjoys an 80-seat majority in parliament because enough of us either don’t care about his fairly obviously racist ideals, or, in many cases, enthusiastically support them.

The psychologist and author John Amaechi famously said quite recently that our culture is defined by the worst behaviour we will tolerate. Our culture is currently a thoroughly unpleasant one, in which the most appalling behaviour is not only tolerated, but blithely accepted. This is not a ‘tiny minority’. Or anything like. Racism is woven into the very fabric of our society. It is ubiquitous, allowed, excused and often celebrated. It’s who we are. If you’re genuinely sitting there and arguing that this isn’t the ‘real England’, you are a fairly significant part of the problem, and a long period of education and introspection is required.

There is some good that can come of this, though. The inclusiveness of this English team, the way they’ve used their platform to promote the message that they represent all communities, religions, sexualities and ethnicities, and how clear they’ve made it that they do not want the support of those who don’t share those values, provides a much-needed glimmer of hope. Tyrone Mings’ timely and powerful condemnation of Priti Patel’s hypocrisy was refreshing to see, and there’s a tentative sense that they are starting to galvanise those with anti-racist beliefs around their measured but stubborn advocacy.

It can’t all be left to them, however, and it’s up to us, the beneficiaries of the inherently racist society in which we live, to take the fight forward. It shouldn’t be down to black people to carry out the emotional labour necessary to bring about an end to a problem created, promoted and sustained by white people. It is not enough to be ‘not racist’. You don’t win any prizes for managing to get through the day without saying the n-word. And burying your head in the sand, hiding behind protestations like ‘not true fans’ and ‘not the real England’, is helpful only in assuaging your own conscience whilst perpetuating the white supremacist culture that brought about Sunday’s ugly scenes.

Pride Month 2021: Step the fuck up or fuck the fuck off

We did it, queers! We solved homophobia! Transphobia no longer exists and biphobia is a thing of the past! Praise be to Billy Porter that we can now put the long fight for LGBTQ equality behind us and focus on more important things. Like brunch. And interior design.

Yes, this Pride Month has seen almost unanimous appropriation of the rainbow flag by governments, charities, public bodies and private businesses alike, which must mean they all unequivocally support our community and every individual of which it is comprised. Except when doing the absolute bare fucking minimum is a bit difficult for them, of course, in which case they promptly release a statement saying, “Fuck this, homos, you’re on your own.”

I wrote last year about how challenging Pride Month had been for LGBTQ people, how many of us were isolated from our support networks, cut off from our friends and those we might think of more as family than the people with whom we share our DNA, excluded from the only spaces in which we can really be our whole selves. That remains true this year for those of us who have resisted the urge to throw caution to the wind as a more transmissible and at least partially vaccine-resistant Covid-19 variant spreads through the population, but even with the relaxation of the rules some of us have enjoyed, this year’s Pride Month seems even more bleak and depressing than the last.

At the time of writing, we still have nearly a week of June left, and we’ve already seen a seemingly interminable parade of performative allyship that folds in the face of even mild resistance from those who would do us harm. Company after charity after governing body after politician, lining up to demonstrate that they care about us deeply, but only when it’s easy or convenient for them to do so.

It goes without saying that corporate rainbow-washing during Pride Month is nothing new – it’s the same every year – but it feels like there’s been a fairly significant shift this year. Like we’re slipping backwards. Like the examples of organisations using us to tick a diversity box then shitting on us from an orbital height seconds later have been so relentless and egregious that it’s hard to believe they’ve all been crammed into the same month.

Earlier in the month, the official Twitter account of the Duke of Edinburgh scheme tweeted a supportive message to LGBTQ youth, in which they posted links to some charities where they could seek help and advice if they needed it. Charities including Stonewall and Mermaids, for example. Needless to say, this prompted a fierce backlash from the fundamentally evil but well-coordinated transphobes of social media, whereupon @DofE decided to quietly delete their tweet, thereby clearly articulating how much they really value the young queer people on their scheme.

A few days later, after tweeting a message about how much they respect and cherish their LGBTQ students, it emerged that academics employed by the Open University had set up something called the ‘OU Gender Critical Research Network’. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the terminology, ‘gender critical’ is a term transphobic bigots have ascribed to themselves to lend their hateful bullshit a veneer of respectability. And with some success, it has to be said. Whether or not the OU have officially sanctioned this network is unclear, but they have not, to the best of my knowledge, taken any steps to distance themselves from it.

The Royal Academy, their official Twitter account replete with rainbowy loveliness, announced a couple of weeks ago that they would not be restocking the work of a particular artist in their gift shop following concerns about transphobic content on her social media pages. Cue the howls of indignation from those who spend their entire lives trying to strip rights, dignity and appropriate healthcare options away from trans people, followed by the Royal Academy folding like a fucking deckchair and issuing an apology that they had compromised the bigots’ right to free speech.

UEFA, after insisting from their Pride-pigmented Twitter account that football is ‘everyone’s game’, launched an investigation into German goalkeeper Manuel Neuer for wearing a rainbow armband during one of their Euro 2020 group games. They eventually backed down on this after a fairly significant public outcry, accepting that the armband was a symbol of diversity, and therefore not political.

Which made it all the more enraging when they refused a request from the Mayor of Munich for the Allianz Stadium to be lit up in rainbow colours for Germany’s match against Hungary. Their reasoning, somewhat fucking perplexingly, was that such a gesture would indeed be political because Hungary’s government is so proudly and vocally homophobic.

So we’re left with the situation whereby UEFA are expecting us to accept that a symbol of support for human rights is not political, but where that same symbol might upset those who seek to deny us those rights, it becomes political and is therefore impermissible. This is, of course, an entirely coherent and legitimate position, much like, for example, “Yes, we obviously agree murder is wrong, but please keep those opinions to yourself in the presence of my friend, the murderer.”

I’ve heard lots of people saying over the past few days that human rights are never political, but I’m not sure I agree. I tend to think such issues are inherently political, they’re just not remotely fucking complicated. There’s a right side and a wrong side, and it ought to be very simple for anyone with a shred of basic decency to decide which is which.

Everything we do – or, equally importantly, do not do – where equality is concerned is a political act. Choosing, for example, to allow a country with an authoritarian, homophobic, transphobic government to host games in your football tournament is a political act. Refusing to allow another country to respond by saying, “We support the LGBTQ community even if you don’t,” is a political act. So-called neutrality on matters of human rights is never that – it’s simply a means of enabling those who would oppress others to carry out that oppression. Silence is complicity, inaction is tacit support.

This applies across the board, whether you’re the governing body of European football bowing to pressure from a homophobic government, a charity claiming to defend a persecuted minority then backing down because it’s too difficult for you to stand up to ‘gender critical’ trolls, or an individual deciding to stay out of the ‘transgender debate’ (ugh) because it’s ‘too complicated’ or ‘too controversial’.

We face this shit every day of our lives. For some of us, it is our lives. We don’t get to opt out.

I have every possible Twitter filter dialled up to 11, but I still receive daily homophobic abuse. Vile comments equating me to a paedophile, doubting my suitability to parent my own child, wishing me dead. And that’s just the stuff that makes it through the ‘quality filter’. And the thing is, I’m one of the lucky ones. For all the toxicity I deal with every day, it’s but a fraction of that experienced by the average trans person. By choosing to ‘stay out of it’, you are making a conscious decision to allow that abuse to continue, and to continue with your silent blessing. If that’s not a political act, nothing is.

The days of performative allyship have to come to an end. If a rainbow flag and a ‘Happy Pride’ is the best you can manage, we don’t need you. It is utterly fucking exhausting to have to sit here every June and watch organisations and individuals cosplaying support for our rights without lifting a single finger to advance them in any meaningful way. And it’s as infuriating as it is exhausting to see the creeping normalisation of attacks on our community, sheathed in the language of ‘free speech’ and ‘legitimate concerns’, while those who profess to have our backs passively allow (or actively encourage) it to happen.

It falls to all of us to do better. This is especially true for those who seek to profit from the use our symbols – whether financially, professionally or politically – but there’s also plenty we can do as individuals to ensure our allyship is more than just lip service.

Educate yourselves. ‘It’s complicated’ is not an excuse. Follow trans, non-binary and other queer accounts on social media. Listen – really fucking listen – to what those accounts are saying about their lives, their rights and the abuse they face just for existing. Do a fucking Google. Donate to LGBTQ charities, and call out those who profess to support us but fail to do so when the going gets tough. Write to your MP to express your support for GRA reform and a conversion therapy ban. Don’t buy, subscribe to, or visit the websites of newspapers that promote anti-LGBTQ content (this includes the fucking Guardian). Resolve to never, ever vote Conservative (though I accept that certain other parties aren’t much better in this regard). Refuse to back down in the face of homophobic, biphobic or transphobic hate. Don’t raise the profile of hateful people by arguing with them online. Block the bigots and post something positive on your own account in response. Speak out in your homes, workplaces and friendship groups. Make it clear that you are someone who will always strive to promote the rights of LGBTQ people, and that you will not tolerate those who wish us ill. Lose friends, if you have to. Saying, “Julie is a really nice person who helps me with the kids, she just doesn’t want trans women in ladies’ toilets,” doesn’t cut it. Pick a fucking side. Pick a side and fight for what’s right, even when it’s difficult, because that’s what it means to be an ally. 

If it’s easy, you’re fucking doing it wrong.

Without further restrictions, ‘Freedom Day’ may never come

As has been anticipated since he set an arbitrary date for the ‘final and irreversible’ relaxation of Covid restrictions, thereby raising public hopes in the absence of any tangible evidence that he would be able to deliver, Boris Johnson has finally announced, via the official government method of leaking it to Laura Kuenssberg at 22.00 on a Sunday evening, that the easing of restrictions will now be delayed for a further four weeks to enable more vaccinations to be administered.

Somewhat predictably, the howls of anguish from the anti-woke, anti-snowflake, anti-Marxist, anti-lockdown, anti-mask, anti-vaccine, pro-flag, pro-statue, pro-Brexit, pro-two-world-wars-and-one-world-cup, pro-Tory divorcees of Twitter were, in the wake of this announcement, quite deafening. “We want our freedom back!” they cried. Hashtag I’m Done. Hashtag Enough Is Enough. Hashtag Please Let Me See The Kids, Sharon.

‘Lockdown extension’ trended for several hours as they vented their spleens about the violent oppression of having to wear a mask in Tescos for another four weeks and the blood-curdling brutality of the greater than usual degree of difficulty in obtaining footy tickets. I tried, via the use of some fairly blunt sarcasm, to make the point that we’re not currently in anything that could be correctly described as a ‘lockdown’ as we’re legally allowed to do most things at this point, but I’m not sure it really landed.

That’s not to say, of course, that there aren’t reasons to be angry. If you’ve been anything in the ballpark of ‘conscious’ over the past 18 months, you should be absolutely fucking furious. As is so often the case, however, much of this anger seems to be manifesting for all the wrong reasons.

In February and March 2020, as we watched the carnage unfolding in Italy and elsewhere, we hesitated, prevaricated and delayed. A swift lockdown at that point, together with strict controls on those entering and leaving the country and a working test and trace system, would have left us ideally placed as an island nation to avoid the worst of the pandemic. That’s not mere speculation – Australia and New Zealand have been back to something approaching ‘normal’ for some time now, simply because they acted decisively to halt the spread of the disease.

And ironically, at least some of the responsibility for the fact that we didn’t adopt this course of action lies with the vacuous tits who now spend their Saturdays parading through London with that bellend off ‘Lewis’, the tinfoil-hat-clad brother of a former Labour leader and a woman who filters human excrement for entertainment; demanding an end to restrictions that, for the most part, do not exist. Were it not for the fact that our Prime Minister is far more worried about whether he is personally popular than whether or not a few hundred thousand plebs remain alive, and were it not also for the fact that the very people who now rail against the weaker, more protracted restrictions provided vocal opposition to stronger, swifter but ultimately more short-lived restrictions back in 2020, we might have avoided this calamity.

The same could be said in relation to every step in our disastrous handling of this pandemic. As mistake after mistake has unfolded, the entire process has followed a depressingly familiar cycle:

  1. Cases rise, scientists warn that action is required
  2. There is significant opposition to any restrictions among right-wing commentators and media
  3. Government delays imposing restrictions to avoid negative headlines
  4. Situation becomes untenable and restrictions are finally imposed, weeks too late
  5. Restrictions last far longer than necessary because of earlier delays, leading to public fatigue
  6. When cases start to fall, pressure mounts to relax restrictions
  7. Government relaxes restrictions too early to avoid negative headlines
  8. See 1.

Without this vitriolic opposition from the right-wing press and the honking, anti-science reactionaries of social media, there’s every chance the PM would have acted differently. He is a man whose first and only thought in any given situation is, “How will this benefit me?” He is powered by pure, concentrated selfishness, and if imposing an early, well-managed lockdown would have led to a Daily Mail splash comparing him in favourable terms to Winston Churchill, he’d have executed the order in a fucking heartbeat.

That’s not to absolve the government of any responsibility, of course. The overwhelming majority of the blame rests firmly on their shoulders, because effective leadership sometimes means making unpopular decisions in the short term knowing they will be for the greater good in the longer term. And the most ridiculous thing is, had they taken these difficult decisions at the outset and pre-empted the first (or the second or the third) wave, he might have actually secured his ‘BORIS IS CHURCHILL’ headline in the end.

This short-termist thinking has characterised the government’s approach to Covid throughout, and it’s no coincidence that we not only have one of the worst per capita death tolls on the planet, but have also taken the biggest Covid-related hit to the economy of any country in Europe. Entire industries have been decimated by callous inaction, ministerial indifference and lack of essential financial support, as billions of pounds have been funnelled into the pockets of Conservative Party donors for a test and trace system that’s not fit for purpose, ventilators made out of old hand-dryers and PPE that was never delivered.

As each half-arsed, weeks-too-late lockdown has been lifted weeks too early, some of these industries have never been allowed to reopen, and many hundreds of businesses have now been lost forever. Indeed, one of the most common arguments advanced in the outpouring of terrible grammar that followed the announcement of this latest delay related to the horrific toll the existing restrictions are exacting on those in the hospitality, arts and nightlife industries. All very valid concerns, and we should be angry about that. 

We should be angry, however, not about the personal inconvenience of having to book a table if we want to go to the pub, but that these essential and profitable businesses have been allowed to go to the wall for want of adequate financial support, and that quicker, more decisive action that stayed the course would have rendered this discussion largely moot.

We should be angry that a three-week delay in imposing the first lockdown led to a wave of death and destruction that could have been avoided or mitigated had we acted sooner. We should be angry that £37bn of our money has been sunk into a test and trace system that has never worked. We should be angry that Covid patients were released into care homes without testing, precipitating further avoidable carnage amongst some of the most vulnerable people in our population. We should be angry that many healthcare professionals perished for want of adequate PPE. We should be angry about Eat Out To Help Out. We should be angry that schools and universities were ordered back in September with no plan in place to control the spread of the disease. We should be angry about the ‘get back to work or lose your fucking job’ headlines. We should be angry about scientists’ calls for a lockdown in the autumn going unheeded until it was too late.  We should be angry that this autumn lockdown, like all the others, was lifted too early. We should definitely be angry about fucking Christmas, and the predictable and predicted wave of excess mortality it unleashed for the sake of a BORIS SAVES CHRISTMAS’ headline. We should be angry that, after all that, the same mistakes have been made coming out of this lockdown as with the previous two. And we should be utterly fucking enraged that, for a country that invests so much time and energy into ‘controlling our borders’ as it pertains to desperate people arriving via dinghy seeking a better life, we have been singularly unwilling to ‘control our borders’ in the context of a global pandemic that has claimed the lives of 150,000 of our citizens.

Scientists warned, several weeks ago, of the dangers posed by the Delta variant. They called, time and again, for India, where the variant originated, to be added to the ‘red list’ of countries to which travel was restricted. These calls were ignored for weeks on end because Johnson was desperate for a trade deal photo-op with the Indian PM to draw our noses away from the interminably pungent shit-smell of Brexit. By the time India was eventually added to the red list, the variant in question was already established in the UK. It has since become the dominant variant in the country, accounting for 90% of new cases. It is now growing exponentially, with in excess of 7,000 new cases a day at the time of writing, and is thought to be up to 60% more transmissible than the previous strain (which was 50% more transmissible than the original). Most worryingly of all, the variant is already showing some degree of vaccine resistance.

We now stand at yet another crossroads. Carrying on as we are simply isn’t enough. With the number of new cases doubling every 7-10 days even with the current restrictions in place, we face the possibility that, in a month’s time, we could easily have upwards of 50,000 new cases a day.

It’s at this stage of proceedings that someone will inevitably pipe up with, “But all the older and more vulnerable people are vaccinated, so it doesn’t matter if the cases go up,” but this ignores the fact that millions of people are still only partially vaccinated, and millions more aren’t vaccinated at all. They still run the very real risk of experiencing long-Covid symptoms (or worse) if they contract the disease. But even that’s not the main problem with allowing cases to spiral out of control at this point.

Viruses mutate. It’s what they do. This particular virus has already mutated on many occasions, producing several distinct strains. These mutations occur randomly as the virus replicates. Advantageous (to the virus) mutations are selected for and become more prevalent, while the less beneficial ones die out. It follows, therefore, that if more opportunities exist for the virus to reproduce, the number of mutations will also increase. More mutations overall means a greater chance that one (or more) of those mutations will be advantageous to the virus. So allowing cases to grow unchecked in a partially vaccinated population, where the dominant strain is already highly transmissible and showing some degree of resistance to the vaccine, creates the perfect environment for a variant to emerge that escapes the vaccine completely. I’m sure I don’t need to explain why such an outcome would be very bad news indeed for every human being on the planet.

Keeping transmission as low as humanly possible until a significant proportion of the world’s population are vaccinated would greatly reduce the risk of this apocalyptic scenario unfolding. This means (relatively) short-term restrictions to bring cases as close to zero as possible in this country, monitoring and disrupting new outbreaks as they occur, and strictly controlling who enters and leaves the country until the rest of the world catches up with their vaccination programmes. A full lockdown might not be necessary given the advanced stage of the vaccine programme here, but far greater restrictions than are currently in place will be required to reverse the upward trend in cases.

Further restrictions at this point would undoubtedly be painful for everyone (though that pain could be alleviated considerably with appropriate support in place from the government), but as in March and September and December and April, taking a short term view of this is the worst thing we could possibly do. I hate lockdowns as much as the next person, regardless of what ‘HammersDave84750398’ might assert in my Twitter replies. My mental health has been in the fucking toilet for well over a year now, and I’m desperate to be released back into the wild to go about my homosexual business. But I’m also pragmatic enough to understand that the vaccines are our one long-term ticket out of this unholy mess, and if we blow that, the next eighteen months could make the previous eighteen look like a sunny evening in a socially distanced beer garden.

Episode 21

Simulcast preview of Max’s new podcast, ‘Not Having Sex’, with co-host Bibi Lynch. Contains all the usual bad language, plus added Bibi.

Subscribe via your usual podcast provider.