Coronavirus. Projected path.

A guest post by Professor Jan Nieupjur of the Institute for predicted pandemics. Barnards Castle.

After much research on the part of myself and Dominic  Cummings; Doctorer of predictions.Westminster, I can safely predict the following events might occur:

Ist wave. Already here as predicted with 2020 hindsight by Dr Cummins.

2nd wave. Next.

3rd Wave. After that.

Marcel Wave (France only)  Apres cette.

Royal Wave. By Royal command.

Mexican Wave. (USA only). Whenever dude.

Elite's prosecution Waiver. Immediately.

Severn Bore. Monthly.

Pub Bore. Constant.

Flat calm in conjunction with the alignment of Uranus and Swan upping.

Jan Nieupjur, Gloaming, marshmallow dreams and a bonfire of Tory vanities.

Rudely awakened from my, post liquid luncheon snooze, by an helicopter chattering overhead like an Inuit naturist's teeth, I peered, in an old fashioned fashion, from the front door only to notice old friend Jan Nieupjur, standing on the corner, looking nonplussed, in a myopically challenged kind of way, at a discarded tailors dummy.

'What ho! Jan'. I cried in greeting. 'What ails thee?'

He limped, his Zimmer frame rattling like a pox doctors clerk, over the cobbles to the six foot perimeter barbed wire.

'Just taking my post Covid libido out on a test run. Judging by my groin's response to that charming young thing on the corner and her reaction to my Seventh Avenue come on, I am fucked... Or not fucked. If you get my drift'.

I handed him a glass of the funeral sherry I keep to ward the barflies off my good stuff and pointed out that she was, in fact, a dummy.

'You bet'. Ejaculated Jan. 'I have three florins in my pocket itching to be spent. Enough to get her back to Estonia and still have change'.

I gave him the address of a wonderful sex therapist in Barnard Castle I had once had the pleasure to consult.

We talked on into the burgeoning gloaming of our lives. Toasting marshmallow dreams on a bonfire of Tory vanities.

Taurus Trakker. Auto Gigs.

Taurus Trakker, Martin Muscatt & Allison Phillips along with Wigsy* on bass (they have had more bass players than Spinal Tap) are THE local band. Before this shitshow Coronavirus started they could be seen and heard often in the neighbourhood (as well as further afield), especially in Mau Mau; a bar on Portobello Road, the last of the real live venues round here. Mau Mau closed a few months ago for refurbishment, whether it ever opens again is now very much in the air but I was told that it would only be featuring DJ's with their dansettes. Who knows.

The band have started playing live gigs in their car during the crisis. They are 20 odd minutes of pure joy, fun and rock & roll. It is streamed live on facebook HERE Catch them, it is well worth it.


The bands website is HERE

Bandcamp thingy HERE

I could tell you more about the band but it is all on their website in glowing technicolour. Their CV is impressive.

I'll update this in a day or so.

*Wigsy used to run 'Loco'; an often chaotic weekly music pub thing. The scene of many of my poetry intermissions. See earlier blogposts.

Notable dates in History. !2th April 2020 Dom Cum Dur.

On April 12 2020:

My 65th birthday

Dominic Cummins' wife's birthday

Dominic Cummins whilst suffering from the Coronavirus drives his wife and child 30 miles each way to Barnard Castle to 'test his driving skills and eyesight'. What a curious and thoughtless birthday present for the missus, a potentially lethal drive whilst suffering from the virus and no doubt pilled up to the eyeballs. Surely one tries out this kind of thing alone in order to protect the lives of one's loved ones.



I spent the day, like many others abiding by the lockdown rules set by Cummins & co in order to protect myself, protect others and help the NHS, missing friends and family and missing the glorious sights of Barnard Castle.

If I were a conscience I know who's conscience I'd rather be...

Borth. The end of it.

Be quick my aching feet
and rid this place of me
flat matt black smear of sullen land
wedged between rugged beauty
and liquid gun metal sea

the only road a stair rod of leaden hopelessness
finialled with village namesigns
umbilical from way in
giving life to a way out
that veers off, set square true
between graph paper fields of
itchy footed mobile homes
rooted in their own unhaphazard nightmares.
Towards a horizon beckoning relief

Borth beach slate grey
skid mark on the unwashed underpants of Wales
caught between a hard place
and unforgiving sea
grey upon grey upon grey upon grey
populated by innocent children, whom, having seen no better
assume that this is what life is and
gaggles of Whistler's Mothers;
arrangements of grey on black.

the tides are bullied in

hang around like a bored teenage
goth dreaming of Whitby
on his last family holiday ordeal...

then race away with glee

Of all the beauty of this Principality
what brings me here to this
to triage at the waiting room of romantic health tests
sitting, beach benched, uncandyflossed
as you walk out into the limp bara lafwr mor.

Watching and willing you to keep going
Knowing the prognosis to be terminal.

Knowing that I no longer want you in my life
nor me in this unhappy place.

That Johnson Cummins conversation in full.

Many thanks to Andrew Ryser Szymanski for this:


BJ: "I'm sorry Dom, but you know I've got no alternative. This is going to bring the whole administration down. I'm afraid I've got to let you go".
DC: "No you haven't fat boy. You know I've got the full file on you. Everything. The lot. Do you think I didn't know this moment wouldn't come one day? Just call it little me taking precautions".
BJ: "You wouldn't. Surely you couldn't sink that low. I'll deny everything. That's bloody treason".
DC: "Your choice, fat boy. Less than 6 months from hero to zero, my little Churchill.
BJ: "But you just can't. I'll deny everything".
DC: "I've got it all fatboy. Photographs, emails, corroborating statements. You're toast fat boy".
BJ: "Look Dom. Be sensible. We can spin this. I'll make a public address. Greatest regret at losing you and all that, doctor's orders, ongoing condition post Covid forcing your brave resignation. Heroic service re Brexit, possible knighthood. How's that?"
DC: "Do you want to see these emails and photos"?
BJ: "OK, OK, I'll tell 'em you did nothing wrong and have my total support. I'll tell Baker and anyone else making trouble that they're finished. I'll do that today. You the boss, Dom, baby".
DC: "Excellent Prime Minister. A man just has to know his limitations".

Boris' Coronavirus advice (In parentheses).

Work in progress...


Gonna get up in the morning
Gonna take a drive up north
to see my dead dad in Durham
or my gran in Perranporth (weather permitting)

Boris says it's fine by him
(for I went to Magdalen* too)
Boris says don't do what I say
Boris says doo be doo be do (don't bogart that joint)

Boris says cut me a line
says hey man bring out the pot
Gotta persuade the country I'm high on drugs
before my career is shot (got any downers?)



*True fact.The rest is fiction.

Peter Rachman's library steps.

Mein Kampf:- Adolf Hitler
10 steps to a better body:- Charles Atlas
On Narcissism:- Sigmund Freud.

The Dominic Cummins Coronavirus trip inconsistencies.

So far I am able to ascertain that the following statements are true:

Cummins is not telling the whole story. No surprise there.

Mrs Cummins did not tell the truth in her Spectator article of 25th April regarding her and her husbands Virus experience.

Grant Shapps defended Cummins' actions before even talking to Cummins or ascertaining the true facts.

The Government described stories of further Cummins breaches of the lockdown rules as 'Innacurate'. Not 'false' or 'untrue'.

Cummins must go but Boris must be saving that until he has some nastier news to hide.



to be continued

Transport of delight.

I'm going to heaven in a handcart
I'm going to Dedham in a wain
I'm going to Paris in a tumbrel
there to meet my darling Louisette.
I'm going to Nashville on the last train
to Frisco on a street car named desire
having crossed America in a Conestoga
with Cat Balou, but have not set out yet.

I'm going to a fire in a Green Goddess
I'm going to church in a yellow Rolls Royce
I'm going to Alexandria in an aeroplane
with John Mills, to drink an ice cold beer.
I'm going my own way with Mick Fleetwood
I'm travelling light with JJ Cale
I'll send you postcards from each destination
All saying: 'My love, I wish that you were here'.

Cummins Durham Coronavirus saga.

I wrote a silly ditty on the subject of the Cummings idiocy:

Kids, stay home, stay mum about Dad.

Play candy crush saga on your mum's iphone

while she's drunk amid pots and pans

not Covid cruise saga on Dad's spy phone

as he drives up to Durham to Gran's.

I sent it to the conservative party fb page. Their reply is priceless.

Extra Bank Holiday announced in UK.

The UK Government has announced that an extra Bank Holiday will be created later in the year in order to give weary Brits a day off after months of days off.

It will be named All Virus' Day.

Street parties will be compulsory for all UK residents save immigrant workers and their families who will be obliged to service the nation for the day prior to fucking right off to where they came from. Priti Patel will be excluded from this condition.

Yellow flags and bunting will be flown to signify both the Prime Minister's cowardice and the state of quarantine that the entire country will be obliged to live in until the Chernobyl environs are safe for habitation.

It is hoped that the day will kick start the second hand spam industry as well as provide a use for  High Streets, empty since the failure of all retail outlets throughout Britain save Poundshop and Greggs.

Pentimento.

If asked: Should he have the opportunity
to live his life over again,
what would he paint over,
what would he change?

He'd say: Nothing.
Despite the pain, the hardship, the mistakes.
Nothing,
that life brought me here
to what and where I am now.

Grateful for the memories
content and at peace with my demons.