merelygifted:

(via Boris fails to convince with sanitised take on coronavirus | John Crace | Politics | The Guardian)

And… breathe. Though not too deeply. And certainly not all over anybody else. After more than six weeks of mooching around No 10 hoping the pangolins would deal with the coronavirus on their own, Boris Johnson finally broke off from his sabbatical to ease widespread concerns about a global pandemic with an emergency press conference. Don’t panic! Don’t panic!

There were no face masks or breathing equipment stashed in the corner of the state room. Just hand sanitiser at the front door on the way in. This was Downing Street in full “Keep calm and carry on” mode. As Boris walked into the room, flanked by chief medical officer, Chris Whitty, and chief scientific adviser, Patrick Vallance, his trademark smirk was replaced by the serious face. It wasn’t altogether convincing – it never is – but it was the best he could do. When you’re trying to find the right words to tell several hundred thousand people they might die, it’s probably best not to look too chipper. Don’t panic! Don’t panic!

Boris began by outlining the government’s four-part strategy. Contain, delay, research and mitigate. He forgot to mention the fifth strand of “doing almost nothing”, which had been the plan up until the previous weekend. Everything was probably going to be more or less OK for most people, he continued, though for some people it would undoubtedly not be. Which was just one of those things. But try not to worry as the NHS, which was already severely overstretched and underfunded, was uniquely placed to cope with an extra 2 million patients. Don’t panic! Don’t panic!

“The best thing you can do,” Boris said, “is to wash your hands with soap and hot water while singing Happy Birthday twice.” Mostly as an aspiration that you survive until your next one. Still, at least here he was on relatively strong ground. Because if there’s one thing Boris knows something about it’s washing his hands. Over the years he’s washed his hands of almost everything: family, children, friends, colleagues, morals, scruples. Pontius Boris.

Having listened in silence as the prime minister tried to minimise the situation, Whitty and Vallance were left to deliver a cold dose of reality. No one could say for certain just how bad things were going to get. But it would be at least another six months before we were out of the woods, and in a worst case scenario, 80% of the country could catch the virus with a mortality rate of about 1%. The young would probably be fine. The old, not so much. Bring out your dead! It would also be handy if the UK could work closely with neighbouring countries. If only there was a Union of European countries of which we could be a part…

It rapidly became clear that the government’s emergency plan was actually remarkably thin. Something that had been hastily cobbled together over a couple of days and didn’t really stand up to close examination. There was nothing on what role the army might have to play, how health and social care workers could be protected, which hospital procedures would have to be delayed and what financial provision would be made for workers in the gig economy who weren’t covered by employment law. It was all just a bit hit and hope. Don’t panic! Don’t panic!  …