My Islands Week
PN Journalist Mark Blackmore writes a weekly diary column ‘My Islands Week’. As a treat we offer you one free edition!
Lord only knows how things will have progressed by the time you read this, but right now in the US, there is an alarming but fascinating experiment occurring. Joe Biden has won the election, there is no evidence of cheating. In fact, with their gerrymandering and voter suppression, it’s the Trump Republicans who would stand exposed, if there was ever a fair reckoning over election interference.
Despite this there seems to be a concerted effort to summon into being an alternate reality where Democrats stole the presidency, though not the Senate for some reason. Republicans are using their core skills of message discipline and repetition to make a truth out of something that simply didn’t happen. It’s Hegelian idealism on a national scale – the idea that the world is a reflection of the mind, which alone is truly real. We’ll see if it works, I guess, and if it doesn’t we’ll just insist it did until it does.
Guys, that was a pretty solid philosophy joke. I’m totally not getting paid enough for gags this highbrow.
Press conference on the reappearance of Covid in the Islands. Deputy Editor Nick attended, which is perhaps fortunate as I was much amused at the call for ‘increased vigilance’. Does this mean any rule changes, asked Falklands Radio. Not yet, came the response.
Finally! Our own Falklands version of the UK’s roundly mocked #StayAlert campaign. In the spirit of the thing, I now walk down Ross Road with increased vigilance, diving over hedges and hiding behind parked vehicles, only emerging for the next sprint when I’ve checked the coast is clear.
My checking method involves holding my head perfectly still while moving my eyes from side to side, for extra vigilance. Needless to say, if there’s any Covid lurking about its chances of evading my notice are small indeed.
My only worry is that we all become too vigilant, and start noticing things about each other which allow us to deduce when we last cleaned our teeth or changed the bedding, like a community of 3,000 Sherlock Holmeses. A small price to pay though.
My kids were issuing orders today. “All right, Isis,” their mother said.
“Except they’re white children,” I said. “They’re Vanilla Isis.” What an adventure it is, living with me. My family are all very lucky.
Later I looked up ‘Vanilla Isis’ and saw that it’s a known term, used to refer to Trump-supporting US militia. This was a great disappointment to me, like an explorer discovering what he thought was a fabulous unknown Island only to find there’s already a McDonalds in the interior.
How darkly amusing it was to read of Argentina’s complaints regarding the mine clearances.
They should have been involved, they cry, 38 years after laying the mines and just as the last ones are disposed of.
I remember that time I went to a house party and vomited on my friend’s bed, and then when they changed the bedding the next day I complained loudly that it was wrong of them to clear it up until I came back and did it myself, in my own time. So I can sympathise with the Argentine position here.
In the US of Stateside there are protests from angry white chaps at Donald Trump’s crushing defeat in the election. Trump himself is still insisting he was the real winner, in the most public display of nappy-crapping ever witnessed in international politics.
His attempts to work around getting five million fewer votes than Joe Biden are ridiculous yet hypnotic, and while it doesn’t do to take things for granted in 2020, it’s quite enjoyable watching this slow-motion coup d’twat fall onto its own bumbum.
I checked to see if anyone else came up with ‘coup d’twat’ before me, but I can’t find anything, so I’m claiming that one.
Lots of celebrations as the last mines in the Falklands are disposed of. How odd it will be to wander freely along the coast without checking for signs or fencing. How joyous it will be to get in my massive 4×4 and plough through the dunes, making sure my dog squirts poo over the side as I careen wildly around. I jest, Fran. Put down the staple gun.
Went out to feed the chickens this morning and everything seemed fine, but my daughter popped out to check for eggs in the afternoon and returned with the news that our rooster Midnight was giving every impression of having succumbed to a fatal mischief.
One glance confirmed her diagnosis; at some point during the day, Midnight had gone into the henhouse, keeled over, crossed the river Jordan and entered the Promised Land. I have no idea why – he appeared uninjured, except for being dead.
My working theory is that it was despair at the disappointing finale of Game of Thrones, which he had just finished watching on DVD, though perhaps it’s just me who takes these things so much to heart. Anyway RIP Midnight.
This contrasts with the fortunes of our former rooster Jonathan, the one-chicken hit squad who left my shins and calves criss-crossed with scars. Jonathan now lives in Camp with a new owner, and apparently he has given up his former career as Cluck Norris and become a house pet, using the cat flap to come and go as he pleases and generally delighting anyone who feels like hand-feeding him.
I found this hard to credit, though my wife says she did see one photo in which Jonathan was standing in a room warily eyeing the impressively stocked gun rack on the wall behind him, which could explain a lot. No fool, that chicken.