MEL’SWORLD
8 JULY2020|COMPUTERSHOPPER|ISSUE
Lockdown lock-in
WEQUEUEWITHheadsbowed,
dishevelledandconfused,
maintainingthestatutory
distancefromoneanotherto
preventcontamination.One
by one we approach the side
window,mutter afew words and
then, slowly and with grace,we
hand over our begging bowl to a
disembodied gloved hand that
reaches out to receive it. Our
vessels are dipped in asolution
of vinegar and holy water
against the infection, before
somewhere in the sanctuary
of the hidden interior theyare
filled with cleansing beer,then
returned through the gap.
Forthisholy ritual we must
pay, of course.Wedonot use
coin. It is toodangerous. We use
alittle tarot card, which we wave
in the air then bring near to the
upturned face of an offertory,
pressed to the other side of the
sliding panel of thin glass. We
thank our benefactor,who is
willing to perform this duty for
one hour each day, and who
wishes us well in the hope that
we maybespared, to repeat the
ceremony another day. But we
are not spared, because today
the parliament decrees that our
ale house is doomed. Where
once we gathered at the bar,we
ourselves are barred by plague.
But we are resilient and
resourceful people,and once
behind the sanctuary of our own
doors, we do not sit down to
weep,but instead we prepare to
laugh. Separately,together.
That is not an extract from
Daniel Defoe’snovelAJournal of
the Plague Year,but it could be.
Defoetells the story of one
man’sexperience in the dreadful
epidemic of 1665,and to be frank
there are not alot of laughs in it.
No,thisjournal is written by
me,and it’s my account of how
my community is keeping our
cherished local pub alive.We
have afine community,caring
andsupportive, with only the
minimum of looting and pillaging.
At time of writing, we are just 10
days intoself-imposed isolation,
but by thetimeyou read this,
and Ihopeyou read this, it will
have been two months. What
with my age,myrubbish lungs
and my willingness to walk the
dog, this could be my last piece
forawhile.Infact, this could be
my last piece full stop.Inwhich
case,weneedabit of alaugh.
VIRTUAL REAL-ALE-ITY
The pub across the road from my
front door is the centre of the
community in my ancient little
street. It’s where we meet, discuss
and argue,it’swhere we play
games and get pissed. So in this
Plague Year of 2020, Ireckon it is
vital to keep the pub going, albeit
virtually.There areatleast three
genuine software programmers
among the pub regulars, and
there’s also me.Between us, we
can save the world.
Idecree that the virtual pub
must be like the actual pub.
Tiny,battered and stained brown,
captured as 3D electronic
wallpaper to replicatethe
mismatched antique interior.
Each of we regulars has alifelike
avatar,and is allocated a
distinguishing colour forour text
conversations. My colour is
mucus brown. Our regular
barmaid, she of the red hair,
green eyes and stubbly chin,
seems to have taken advantage
of Photoshop to shrink her waist
and enhance her mammalian
protuberances. And Iswear
Justin’s bald spot has
miraculously sprouted something
that looks like abush-baby’s
bum. As forMrs O’Hagan, who
hasn’t bought around in living
memory,she keeps posting the
same phrase over and over again,
“The Drinks Are On Me!”.
OldTwinkleisrecapturinghis
youthbysmokingaverylarge
virtual joint, and blowing virtual
smoke rings towards the virtual
stains that decoratethe virtual
ceiling. YoungTwinkle is cheating
at virtual dominoes. Games of
backgammon and poker are
wagered forsmall stakes by the
virtual regular players. Habitual
arguments are conducted by
the virtual pub bores, with
everybody expounding and
nobody listening.
MOTHERS OF INVENTION
The mood of my avatar would
normally be swinging like a
pendulum from virtual hilarity to
virtual grumpiness, by wayof
flirtation, foul language and
Frank Zappa. The thing is, our
little screens demonstratethe
comfort and joyofhabit, as we
try to reject the unfamiliar and
re-createour ale-washed
community.Weall seem to
occupyexactly the same virtual
seats at the same virtual tables
that we did before the familiar
world changed. When Justin
arrived, he told YoungTwinkle to
shift his virtual sorry arse in no
uncertain terms, because he was
occupying Justin’s virtual seat.
And there in the virtual
corner,underthe virtual
newspaper rack, next to the
virtual bookshelf,ismyvirtual
place.Asmall round table with
laminated beermats patterned
beneath polished glass. An
Edwardian chair with turned
wooden arms and legs, and
afadedupholstered seat.
Near enough to the action to
eavesdrop,and farenough to
remain aloofifneeds be.
Isee that my virtual chair is
empty,which is awee bit
worrying. Let’s hope Ihave
simply wandered off to the
virtual bar to get avirtual pint
of Goodens Gold. Here in
the virtual pub,Ibelieve that
there is no such thing as
closing time.Cheers, my dear
friends. Cheers.
MELCROUCHER
Tech pioneer and all-round good egg
[email protected]
Wehaveafine community,caring and supportive,
with only the minimum of looting and pillaging
MelCroucherisdoinghisbit forthe communitybyhelpingtokeepthe localpubgoing–
virtually, ofcourse.Justdon’ttakehisseatinthecorner
