Pissed-off Toff draws attention to the fact that the coronavirus is a relatively trivial phenomenon … and suggests that what we need is a proper plague that will kill very large numbers of fat proles and barely sentient OAPs …
I haven’t watched the TV news for months. It makes me too angry. Nor, recently, have I even read the newpapers. With their endless pages of doom and gloom about a ‘killer’ virus that is killing almost nobody, they make me foam at the mouth. Nor, nowadays, can I even bear to catch a glimpse of the mendacious clown who presides over our national suicide.
When, therefore, I am not fuming with anger, I am sunk in despondency, reflecting that I would no more be in the same room as that blubbery-lipped carpet-seller, than I would eat excrement scraped off the soles of my hand-made brogues.
The other evening, however, as I left my local Waitrose with a necessary bottle of gin in my bag, I could not avoid seeing the headline on The Daily Mail. The Turkish carpet-seller was, apparently, “deeply sorry” about the claim that deaths caused by the ‘coronavirus’ have now passed the 100,000 mark.
A string of Anglo-Saxon expletives passed my lips. Because nothing in the world interests ‘Boris’ Johnson but himself. He is not, and cannot, be “deeply sorry” about anything. Nor am I ignorant on this front. I knew his first wife, the divine Allegra Mostyn-Owen, whom I met in Paris in the early 1980s … Allegra, who, to her credit, has not made a fortune by selling the story of her former husband.
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Anyhow, as I walked home from Waitrose, gin in bag, I again shook my head in disbelief at the act of national suicide in which, for the last ten months, the vast majority of the population have been willing participants. And I reflected, once again, that the media, who drummed up this scare story that is killing us all, are staffed by arts graduates who think only of the next sensational headline, and are entirely incapable of seeing anything in perspective, or dealing with even the simplest statistics.
So are one-hundred-thousand deaths (reported, but not confirmed) from corona over the last year or so … are these 100,000 deaths so shocking? Not at all. Cross out a few noughts (even I can do this) and 100,000 deaths out of the current population in the UK of a bit under seventy million … carry out this simple mathematical exercise, and you get one death per 700 people. Expressed in other terms, that is a bit over 1,400 deaths per million … or a death rate of about 0.14% of the population. Almost nothing, in other words.
Plus, with the average age of people reportedly dying of coronavirus being 82 … well then, most of them would have died anyway. Furthermore, there is the vital distinction – and this is by no means a linguistic nicety – to be made between dying of coronavirus, and dying with it.
Put another way: it may well be that lots of OAPs who have recently died had the virus. But they were going to die anyway. Their lives were over. They were waiting to go. You don’t need to be a doctor or a ‘scientist’ (my new most-hated word) to understand that in the overwhelming majority of cases, the corona virus triggers deaths that were already imminent.
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But oh!, the health-and-safety fanatic says, if we hadn’t had lockdown, it would have been so much worse. We’d all be dead.
Again, false. As we now know, the main symptom of the corona, for the vast majority of people who get it, is that you don’t know you have it. What matters, therefore, is not the number of people who are ‘infected’ (and this, misleadingly, is what we hear about every day), but the so-called ‘fatality rate’ … in other words, the proportion of people who, having contracted the disease, die from it. This, it is now established, is about 0.5%. Look at it how you will … but it is not the end of the world.
Am I being trivial? Absolutely not. Let us, hypothetically, allow this virus to run its course; let us assume, as an unrealistic worse-case scenario, that it infects everyone; let us therefore assume that it kills about 0.5% of the entire population. Well then, out of approximately 70 million, we end up with 350,000 deaths … most of which would have happened anyhow, because – as previously stated – those who succumb are fat, old and ill, and the Grim Reaper is eyeing them up already.
And yet … and yet, at the same time as knowing that this virus is not so bad, we also affirm to ourselves that it is the worst thing that has ever happened. For this we must shut down our lives and close down our country; for this small matter, we must wreak havoc on an unimaginable scale; we must commit suicide as a nation.
We know it to be a lie … we cannot not know it to be a lie … and yet we believe it.
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Take, for example, a visit that I recently made to an elderly neighbour of mine, who, in the early stages of dementia, is lonely, bored, and loves my occasional appearances. She is now being looked after by her son, as it so happens a fellow-OE; and this son has now banned me from visiting; even though the mother much wants to see me and even though I could quite legitimately claim to be part of her ‘support bubble’ … to use another term from the dismal lexicon that this fake ‘crisis’ has spawned.
Anyhow, the last time I went there, I was rash enough to express, to the son, my view that the coronavirus scare was a little overdone … a view with which, in her more lucid moments, the mother entirely agrees.
“Oh no,” he said. “This is a lethal pathogen” … relishing the doom-laden ‘scientific’ ring of the words.
“But in terms of killer diseases, it isn’t even in the top ten in the UK,” I said. “And yet we are shutting down our whole country.”
“People are dying of it,” he countered.
“Yes, but people die of lots of things the whole time. Car crashes. Pneumonia. Can’t we have some sense of proportion?”
“It’s a killer disease,” came the answer.
So round and round we went. A highly intelligent – if rather effete – pupil of the most famous school in the world just could not get his mind around the idea of context and perspective. Which is why we are at where we are at: in a sinister new world of mass hysteria … in which, to prevent one death, we must destroy the entire nation.
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Well then, says I, if this is what we have come to, and if we willingly believe what we know to be a lie … well then, let’s have a real plague. Let’s have people dying in the streets. Let’s have a proper cull … like during the Great Plague of 1665, when about one person in five died in London Town … or, further back, like the Black Death of 1348, when something between one-third and one-half of the population of the entire country died.
Now we’re talking!
Plus, the death of about one-third of the current population of the UK would, undeniably, be a good thing. The country is grossly overpopulated. There are far too many people. The roads are horribly overcrowded. There is a terrible housing crisis. The Treasury is overburdened by the necessity of paying pensions to millions of barely sentient OAPs who spend their lives slumped in front of TVs in miserable retirement homes, miserably awaiting the moment of their miserable departure.
So if we were to lose a few million OAPs and also a few hundred thousand overweight proles, almost all of them on benefits, which again puts a strain on the Treasury … if we were to lose these delightful human beings, we would all be better off.
Put me in charge of the cull, and I would, on the whole, spare the upper classes and the aristocrats and all Old Etonians (except for the Turkish carpet-seller). But frankly, if I were one of those to go, I couldn’t care less. I’ve lived a life, of sorts; I’ve always wondered what awaits us in the hereafter; and I’ll be quite interested to find out.
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In the meantime, I’d better decide who I am going to leave my collection of solid gold pens to. So here, to end with, is a photograph of perhaps the most valuable piece in my collection: an 18-carat gold Waterman fountain pen, in the vagues (‘waves’) pattern, hallmarked throughout. Only a very few were made, in the mid-1970s. It’s worth a fortune.
Here it is.
Yes. When the world has gone mad, one cheers oneself up as one can. And to return to my point: I want about one-third of the population of this country to die of a properly serious disease. That might bring us to our senses.