Covid The Movie
We open on a hospital ward: Dark, save for the flicker of light from bedside machines that gasp rhythmically, an emphysemic tide lapping at Stygian shores.
We pan slowly forward, toward one of the beds where the white blankets, ruffled like soured cream, form the hillocks of a human presence – a man with a mop of dirty straw hair, his once jolly, ruddy, cheeks all hollowed out. And then an utterance: “Whiff. Whaff”.
No seriously, somebody cut a vein for me – I’m too feart to do it myself. Indeed I deserve bleeding out after that appalling stab at the opening scene of Covid The Movie.
Never mind the bad taste of portraying idiot Johnson on what could have been his deathbed, it’s just not very good really. Given my day job, you’d think I could pitch something better script-wise – best stick to selling Mintolas and Orange Mivvi ices at the interval.
But someone will draw up a ‘narrative’ as they say in da business that endeavours to make sense of this preposterous existence we are enduring.
Folks have endured worse to be fair. Wars. Famine. Pestilence. A dire 0-0 draw between Brechin and Montrose; endlessly played in borstals across Scotland in the 1980s as a punishment for escapees.
Worse still, the prospect of a life long season ticket to Glebe Park. A terrible, terrible, fate…
Digs at one of Scotland’s only ‘former footballing cities’ aside (a formal status that has since fallen into desuetude), I do wonder where, when and who will take on the task of turning this pandemic into a film.
They’ve done Brexit after all, which seemed a little tautological, as that whole sham was a badly scripted drama to begin with.
Cumberbatch as Cummings? Jesus. They should have just sculpted Dom from dog shit and been done with it – “a steaming log with a blog” would have been a good tag line though…
For Cummings, like Johnson, Hancock and Patel – the collective known as the Clownshow – would have to feature in this unholy panopic (pandemic meets biopic). And that means (god help us) casting calls.
As already telegraphed above, I haven’t a jot of sympathy for any of these chancers. Actually considering who would play them in this film would be like swallowing a pint of your own vomit. Still needs must and all that. So here’s a hastily composed drive-by rant.
Also on the to-do list are: choice of director, musical score, cinematography, wardrobe, make-up, special effects and catering. Like any enterprise, everyone will have an opinion, feel free to discuss among your peers.
For now though I am the Studio God who is commissioning this tinpot affair, think Sam Goldwyn without the memorable quotes, and my word is the final word. So here goes folks. Lights, camera, action…
Boris Johnson to be played by Jack Black with bleached hair. And eyes. And skin. Actually pumped full of bleach, he’ll need a cleanser after the gig. OR to be portrayed as wobbly bouncy castle full of red wine with a smirk daubed from the dried tears of the lied to.
I fancy the legendary John Carpenter for this one.
We want it to be like The Fog meets Halloween meets The Thing. First we’re engulfed by a noxious gas of UK government policy, inaction, deceit, obfuscation and shithousery, followed by random attacks (the virus), then horrible mutations from a thing seeking out hosts amongst an angry, despairing and paranoid community (the virus redux).
Finally, some Escape from New York “we’re all trapped on a fecking island and social order is breaking down.” Just about covers it.
Only the sound of chuckling toffs and lobbyists throughout; as in the spivs who hoovered up taxpayers cash via their ‘VIP lanes’, ‘connections down the pub’ and ‘didn’t I see you at the last tramp-baiting party over at Quentin’s place?’ cosiness.
Some called it, “going the extra mile to protect the nation during times of need.” I call it embezzlement. Tomato, tomayto.
No clothes shall be worn at all. For if anything this whole shebang has exposed us for what we are – or rather what we endure/facilitate/are part of: namely, a very scared, ignorant and ill-prepared group of people who, when push comes to shove, are pretty much all the same when it comes to confronting an indiscriminate virus.
Titles and money and all the rest of it, count for nothing when the shit hits the fan. Supposedly.
Rishi Sunak with his Eat Out to Help Out truck will be providing victuals and vitals. Just gather round closely for a slice of Booster Pie served with a large dollop of short sightedness. Please note: you may choke on it all later.
And with that, I’m running out of steam. Be sure though, this franchise will go on and on.
Because when it comes to film, we can’t get enough of the sequels…