Once upon a time, there were four children named Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy, and they were all sent away to a big country house in Cornwall at the time of the Great Coronavirus Armageddon. The house was owned by an ancient Scottish professor of rugby (as opposed to an ancient professor of Scottish rugby, who would be even more morose) who had had some adventures in his youth that no-one remembered now.
While he wasn’t that excited about bloody kids running around the place, he welcomed them warmly with some half-cooked pieces of cheese and toast, and told them to explore the house and gardens, and to please keep the noise down, and stay out of the way of the occasional tours that took place in the house.
One day it was pissing it down outside, and they decided to play hide-and-seek inside the house.
Lucy ran around the empty rooms, looking for somewhere to hide. She kept hearing voices in the corridor, and so she went on to another part of the house she hadn’t been in before. She pushed open a cobwebby, creaky old door and found herself in a disused, dusty gym with deflated balls, chipped mouthguards and still-smelly unmentionables scattered about.
“This’ll be a super place to hide,” thought Lucy. “Obviously no-one’s been here for years.” But then she heard voices just outside the door again!
“Ah fuck, I’m going to have to hide in one of these lockers.”
She opened the rustiest-looking locker of all, and pushed her way inside. There were old Lions shirts from tours in olden years, and she pushed through them, trying to get to the back of the locker. The locker seemed to be enormous, and it was getting colder and colder.
Much to her surprise, she suddenly found herself in a snowy woodland. It was dark, but she could see a light ahead, so she walked towards it. It turned out to be a lamp-post.
By the light of the lamp, Lucy could see a strange figure with the torso of a man, the legs of a black cat, and horns on his head. “Hullo!” he said. “Are you a Daughter of Maeve?”
“Well aye, my mum’s name’s Maeve, so it is: how did you know?”
“My name is Mr Iknus. You look cold. Please come to my cave for tea.”
Lucy gratefully accepted his invitation (upon my word, what do they teach them in the schools these days?), and listened to Mr Iknus’ tales of the Land of Narnia, for that was where he said she was, while he prepared the tea and scrumptious toast and tea-cakes. He told her that Narnia had been a lovely land, overflowing with milk and honey and excellent, free-flowing rugby matches, until a White Witch had seized control, made it always winter, released a virus in order to impose a lock-down, and cancelled all the rugby, yea even unto the Lions tour.
“Imagine that: always winter and never rugby.”
Lucy shuddered with horror. It seemed all too real to her.
Mr Iknus suddenly sobbed into his hands.
“Whatever is the matter, dear Mr Iknus?” cried Lucy.
“Ah, Lucy, I am afraid I am a bad person. I have promised the White Witch – for money! – to betray any Daughters of Maeve to her. But I cannot betray such a charming young rugby fan. Hush! I will lead you back to Lamp Post and the Corn Wall.”
Mr Iknus was as good as his word, and they slipped silently and furtively (“The Witch has spies everywhere, you know”) back through the woods to the lamp-post. Lucy could see the locker, and pushed her way back through the Lions shirts into the gym.
“Gosh,” she thought, “I’ve been gone for hours. The others will be worried!”
***
“I’m back!” cried Lucy, after she leapt back through the locker, and went racing back to find the others.
“What do you mean, you’re back?” said Peter. “You’ve only been hiding for ten minutes.”
“But I’ve been away for hours and hours, and I found Narnia, and heard all about their Narnian Lions, and Mr Iknus, and….”
“Now, now, Lucy,” said Susan, “You mustn’t make up stories because you got bored.”
Lucy stamped her foot. “But it’s all true, I tell you! I’ll show you!”
“Nah, that’s all right, ta,” sneered Edmund.
Lucy burst into tears. “Well, sod the lot of you rotters; I’m going back to see Mr Iknus, who’s nicer than any of you”, she sobbed, before flouncing off.
Edmund looked shifty and quietly followed her.
Lucy made her way back to the locker, pushed her way through the Lions shirts, and found the lamp-post. There was no Mr Iknus to be seen, but she made her way towards his cave.
***
Edmund had watched Lucy go into the locker and not emerge again. After waiting a few minutes, he decided to investigate.
Much to his surprise, he suddenly found his footfalls crunching on snow, and found himself in Narnia.
“Gosh! I say, Lucy was telling the truth after all! There’s the lamp-post.”
Edmund didn’t see anybody, and started trudging through the snow, feeling a bit sulky that he hadn’t had a warm welcome like Lucy. Suddenly he heard a majestic swooshing sound and, thinking it was a clever long off-load, turned around to catch the ball. The noise turned out to be a magnificent springbok-drawn sleigh bearing an icy-looking woman and some minions.
“Halt!” cried the woman. “What have we here? A Son of George?”
Amazed by the woman’s intuition, yet intimidated, Edmund stammered that he was indeed a son of George. The woman looked at him fiercely, then suddenly changed her manner.
“Poor lad, you look frozen. I am the Queen of Narnia. Please step into my carriage, and I will give you sustenance. Do you like Turkish Delight?”
As it happened, being a thoroughly repulsive character, Edmund did like Turkish Delight. He stepped into the sleigh, and was given a warm fur – yes, real fur – to wrap around himself, and as much Turkish Delight as he could swallow, as well as a lovely drink. The Ice-woman now seemed much more like a beautiful Queen-woman, the most delightful person he’d ever met, and he eagerly attempted to answer all her many questions.
After having covered the basics of Edmund being pro-Brexit and a Saracens fan, she asked him about his associations in the land of Corn Wall. She was particularly interested in the fact that there were four children bonded together, and that they were all rugby fans. She exhorted him to bring them all to visit her, and promised more Turkish Delight if he should oblige – because unfortunately she had run out of the stuff at the mo.
Greedy for more, and feeling all-powerful, Edmund stepped out of the sleigh and made his way to the lamp-post, where he encountered a radiant Lucy.
“Oh, Edmund, so you’ve found Narnia too! I’m so glad someone will believe me now.
“I’ve seen Mr Iknus, and he’s told me that the White Witch, who claims to be Queen, but really isn’t, hasn’t found him out so far. She really is a dreadful woman who hates rugby.”
Edmund said nothing, but followed Lucy back through the locker.
Ovally Balls 
i wonder if he caught by being too close to boris?
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Those 55 are either Tories, “super weirdos”, “misfits” or eugenicists. Or a combination of 2 or more.
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He had symptoms over the weekend apparently.
Well on Saturday afternoon, about 4pm, I developed a temperature and was very tired. I decided to megadose on vitamin C (2g every 2 hours) and by midday Sunday all symptoms had gone and am now back to normal.
Don’t tell Cummings the vitamin C trick, just in case it works.
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I just sent Cummings a WhatsApp but accidentally spelled “vitamin C” as “your own piss”. I’ll never forgive myself.
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Jesus. Just checked and found my phone autocorrected “your own piss” to “Michael Gove’s piss”. I’ll never forgive myself.
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Really shouldn’t be making light of Cumming’s affliction. Really, really, shouldn’t. Fuck it. Go wild.
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@TomP – watched a miniseries on Netflix last night called Unorthodox, about a young woman born into the ultra-orthodox Satmar Hasidic community in New York that had its roots in pre-war Hungary. If you haven’t seen it, I’m sure you’d find it fascinating (and more than a bit frightening). Same for any of the other history/culture etc buffs here.
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Thanks for that tabloid article.
Barnier is my new hero. Probably delibaretely got Covid 19 to then be able to contaminate Bojo. All that to delay Brexit. Dunkirk spirit.
Cunning continentals.
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Does anyone know if it is against the rules to go from my rented house to my garage in my old one? Literally going from driveway to driveway.
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TomP @11:47 – good point.
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Completely illegal Craigs – punishable by up to 6 months in prison. Well, it is here. Just popped out to the local supermarket for some fruit and veg etc and it’s very quiet. Still eerie though, with most people wearing masks – but quite a few not and apparently unfazed by things. Really feel like we’re all living in a Stephen King horror. Except you lovelies, of course!
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If we’re playing schadenfreude at public figures who’ve contracted C-19, a South African* evangelical preacher and a number of his flock have come down with it. Angus Buchan is the organiser of a movement called Mighty Men, which urges men to take responsibility for their actions and to create a more just and caring society. Nowt wrong with that, I hear you protesting at the back. ‘Cept he’s a complete homophobe and is on record as saying that only Jews and Afrikaners will reach heaven.
*Zimbabwean by birth, he probably still calls it Rhodesia, and Harare, Salisbury. Of Scottish extraction, as the name also suggests. Shit, we give you WP Nel, and you give us this shite?
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“Speaking in the White House Rose Garden, the US president claimed that, if his administration keeps the death toll to 100,000, it will have done “a very good job” – ”
from a Guardian article.
How low can you set the bar?
In Europe our response has been slow too, but gosh, how glad I am to not be lead by such a donkey.
Unless anger is the antidote of the virus.
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Flair, don’t read what Bolsonaro’s up to in Brazil.
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Flair – in fairness to Trump*, that’s roughly 0.03% of the overall population in the USA.
A lot of people and a tragedy, but it’s less than the predicted 0.7-2% I’ve seen mentioned for the world wide death rate. That said, if the USA achieves that it will be fuck all to do with him.
* punches self inna face.
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Can the rest of us join in craigs?
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Chimpie – sure.
*closes eye and winces*
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Chimpie just punched himself in the face, Craigs. I winced too. Hell of a shot.
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I am reminded of this:
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‘Police play Baby Shark to thank people for staying off the streets’
What the hell have Andorrans done to deserve this?
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Kneed myself in the face one. That really hurt.
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Chimpie – don’t recommend doing that.
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Good man Craigs!
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In my defence it wasn’t intentional.
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Was it your knee?
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Yeah, bastard’s got a mind of it’s own.
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Oh dog, Raab is doing today’s Downing St briefing.
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Let’s wait for the ratings first before dismissing him.
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Chimpie, did you only punch yourself on one side of the face?
Sorry, couldn’t resist!
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Mrs Deebee just been chatting on WhatsApp to a neighbour about dinner. We’re having homemade burgers on homemade buns with proper fries. His response? Sounds good, but not Burger King, is it?
Fucking right son! It’s actually bloody nice!
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They’re very clever these disaster response people, they think of everything. If loads of people die at the Excel Centre temporary hospital they’ll store the bodies in massive fridges they are currently putting in place at Upminster Crematorium.
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Just to rub salt into the wound World Rugby has put the whole of the Fiji vs Wales 2007 RWC game up on youtube.
So for anyone who delights in Schadenfreude, high tackles and late hits you can google it for yourselves.
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Wales were unconscionable that day!
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That day… what am I talking about?? Ban the Principality!
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Craig,
Your maths are wrong. Thank dog.
Total USA population: 330 000 000.
0.03% of that is about 10 millions.
So Trump with 100 000 casualties would have “only” 0.0003 % of the US population killed. Looks weak.
The US have about 5 times the population of the UK.
So, 20 000 Brits dying from coronavirus should be considered a “great job”?
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And no your maths are not wrong!
Oh, for an edit button!
Ach… mein arse…
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Since Craigs is an accountant I’m sure he can rustle up some different numbers for you, flair.
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@tomp
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Awwh, this is sweet. Joanie Baez for John Prine
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Must be time for some gratuitous acoustic Americana then. No Banjos tho.
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I may have posted this fantastic John Prine cover before
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Ah!
Iris Dement.
‘night!
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Iris Dement.
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Fingers, toes and everything crossed for the wonderfull John Prine, the outpouring of love has been quite something
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Haha flair I recalced t HD at a few times before seeing your correction. It is entirely possible that I fucked it up.
Tbh, the way trump talks about it is pretty disgusting. But, if I take the emotion and principles out of it and measure it purely on relative terms he’s sort of… Right.
*punches self inna face and baws repeatedly*
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*that
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Well, that’s not great.
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Where is Pro? He will be bereft. Spect its the Irish behind it. Donald, bail em out .
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Glorious
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