If COVID had hit in 1989

I was pondering a question today, which I’ve had 6 years to consider, but only really thought about it now:   What if the COVID pandemic had hit when I was at university? 

That was back in 1988-91, when I only ever heard the word “internet” when the Yorkshireman captaining our football team was shouting to the striker where to stick the ball. (And “online” is where his mum hung his wet underpants). So, the concept of technology providing online learning to compensate for abandoned lectures and seminars during a lockdown was non-existent.

To be honest, for a big chunk of my 2nd year, I didn’t need a lockdown to prevent me from attending lectures. There were a range of barriers that proved consistently effective in that regard:

1. All day drinking the previous day

2. All day drinking on that day

3. Prioritising staying in bed to listen to the new Sundays or Stone Roses albums

4. Watching Neighbours and Going for Gold

5. Sheer bloody apathy

And unlike the unfortunate under-grads of 2020-21, we wouldn’t have cared if we were told to stay away from campus and just do our best to teach ourselves with books, because we didn’t pay for our tuition. No tuition fees and no student loans, so we weren’t mortgaging ourselves for life to pay for something we didn’t receive. We’d have been missing out on something we didn’t pay for and which we were only doing because we didn’t pay for it and it stopped us having to get a full-time job.

Many of us had gone there primarily for the social side of it, but a lockdown would have pissed on that happy little bonfire. We would have been told to stay in our hall of residence rooms. With no mobile phones with which to stay in contact with each other, how would we have coped I wonder? There’s an easy answer to that. We would have thought fuck this, gone and knocked for our mates, bought some cans from the local Offie and sat around dicking about day after day. Because you’re talking Generation X here. Cynical, sceptical, non-compliant and lacking any sense of civic duty at that age, so of course we would have broken the rules.

That still would have been a bit shit though, because pubs and hall bars would have remained closed, and there would have been no Friday Night Disco at the Student Union for us to regularly pin our hopes of “pulling” on. The fact that we never did “pull” at the Union isn’t the point. A lockdown would have robbed us of the weekly pleasure of futile optimism.

In all seriousness, I suspect that any sort of pandemic in the years before online communication existed would not have led to a lockdown, certainly not one as strict as the unprecedented COVID one of 2020-1. In 1988-91, the Cold War was ending and having lived under the shadow of possible nuclear apocalypse, I believe we would have under-reacted to COVID. The kids of the 70s and 80s had their own Blitz spirit based on a shrug of the shoulders and a response of “bollocks” to anything serious.

Therefore, my pondering of this question has been a frivolous waste of time.  But then I did spend 3 years practising the art of frivolously wasting my time, so it’s nice to know I can still do it so well.

Bastard Farmers

Before I embark on what will be - and I say this as a warning rather than an apology - a brutally frank and crude example of over-sharing, I should point out that this post is not about our nation’s under-appreciated agriculturalists. I use the term ‘farmers’ much as my Dad always does, as rhyming slang for piles. So, please, please, please, if you are sensitive to subject matter related to the anus, or prone to over-visualise subject matter as you read it, then hit the back up button now. 

I went to the doctor yesterday. And the whole experience provided extensive fodder for a comedic blog post. Because, as avid readers will remember, anything to do with bums makes me laugh.

I booked an appointment with my GP, because I had a lump up my bum. First time. Needed to rule out arse cancer. Best be on the safe side. And for years my wife had repeatedly said that I needed to see a doctor about my arse, because she finds my levels of flatulence completely abnormal and unsavoury. I spent the day at work trying desperately not to fart or poo.

So, I turned up yesterday evening and the doctor asked, “How can I help you?”

I said, “You’re going to need your gloves” and told him.

He told me to lie face up on the bed. I processed this instruction as ‘face down’ as this is what I’d expected. But after some repetition, I got what he meant, but then I confusedly wondered how he’d do this examination. Like a midwife would a pregnant woman? I really didn’t want to look him in the eye as he looked me in the arse. But there was no cause to worry. He asked me to turn on my side, pull my trousers and pants down and raise my knees to my chest. I’ve never had to trust someone so much in my whole life,

Suffice to say, it was my first haemorrhoid. Phew! I’d ruled that out due to a lack of the normal associated symptoms, so it was reassuring to know I wasn’t about to die from an arse-related condition. So, I said, “While you’re there, can you check my prostate, because I’ve not had it checked and at my age, I probably should.” He agreed, but said he needed to change his gloves, for some reason.

I’m not sure how close his elbow got to my arse-cheeks,  but this was a fair bit more anally intrusive than I’ve experienced before. (Coincidentally, I’m writing this whilst the Eurovision Song Contest is on TV in my house). He described how my prostate felt. “Soft and spongey”apparently. “Is that a good thing?” I asked, slightly annoyed that he didn’t share that reassurance straight away. It is. Good outcome and well worth the anal violation.

To avoid further haemorrhoids, he asked me to describe my usual poo by showing me pictures of a range of turds. “That’s the Bristol stool chart” I said. “How do you know that?” he asked. I told him my wife used to be a nurse and I often sent birthday cards to people with that chart on them. He said I needed to drink more water and eat more “ruffage”.

He then showed me pictures online of what cream I needed to buy to put up my bum. Anusol. He asked if I wanted him to write it down. “I’m sure I can remember that name” I replied.

I drove to the chemists, waited for the queue to die down slightly, then found some Anusol on the shelf. There were 3 different types. I took all three to the counter and asked what the difference was between them. The pharmacist told me enough to decide, so I took one packet aside and said I’d take that. But she continued to describe the difference in more detail. I kept trying to tell her I’d decided, but she carried on a bit.  My wife later said that I should have pretended the Anusol was for her to use on her face to avoid bags under her eyes, but I’d already bought a packet of salad from the Co-op next door as “ruffage” and put this on the pharmacist’s counter. So, they would have known I had arse problems.

I got home and messaged my two best mates, not naming names, but both have had arse problems. I told them how excluded I had felt previously, but my first haemorrhoid now made me feel more included. I felt like we were in a club. The arse problem gang. I asked if we should have a password. As kids, we were all in The Beano club and its password was “Ding Dong”. Maybe we should use that. I certainly felt like I had a clapper up my backside.

Anyway, I see the whole experience as a rite of passage. The positives are that I’m not going to die, I didn’t have to question my sexuality afterwards and I’ll probably eat more healthily and drink more water from now on. But the weirdest feeling I had as a result, was as I drove home after this anal examination, I had an overwhelming desire to wash MY hands.