At first, the virus signalled the end of the world. Now we know it to be neither particularly lethal nor particularly infectious.
We have been led to hysteria.
Opinions differ about the lockdown. Evidence is equivocal: its effects, however, are not. The economic consequences will be felt for generations, and the geopolitical maelstrom is only just beginning.
But whatever about the big picture, the lockdown has been desperately cruel for many, especially the chronically ill, the dying, the grieving, and those in sheltered accommodation and care homes.
The purpose of this piece is not to provoke discussion about the handling of the pandemic or the nature of the lockdown, but rather to let a dear and longstanding friend tell the story of how it has affected him and his wife. They are examples of the heroism that has emerged from this terrible wound that our society has inflicted upon itself.
Over to you, friend.
I already look with horror at the misery caused not by the virus but by our response to it. My wife, sadly, has dementia and Parkinson’s disease, and has lived in a care home for over three years. I was excluded from visiting her altogether from the day lockdown started and left her the day before that wondering if I would ever see her again. Her capacity precludes any meaningful contact by telephone or video calling.
The home has been visited by the virus with proportionate fatalities, but she has not so far been infected as far as I know. But over the first two months she gave up eating and drinking properly, lost more than half a stone in weight and has not been out of doors other than to make two trips to A&E following falls with injuries. Without saying how, I have found my way round the restrictions on visiting though I am limited to one visit per week at present. She is now showing more interest in eating and her mood has lifted at least some of the time.
I am slightly nervous, as lockdown is lifted, that my access may perversely be blocked again for reasons of preventing virus spread in the interests of others. The national policy has been one of panic rather than reasoned risk assessment with measured responses.
The English public, if it thinks of the Church of England at all, assumes it’s phenomenally wealthy, and that the church receives funding from the state or from taxes.
None of this is true.
The church is at a crisis. The history of how it has come to this is long and complex involving mediaeval laws and customs, agricultural and land legislation, economic changes, societal and cultural changes, the impact of scientific endeavour, and more. But though the history is interesting, we must move on from where we are now.
Funds come from:
personal giving by parishioners;
fees from weddings and funerals;
parish rental and investment income, if any; and
subventions from the Church Commissioners whose funds are also dependent on rental and investment income.
As a result of lockdown, church closures and economic effects of government response to the virus:
Giving has plummeted. Although some churchgoers give by standing order or direct debt, more do not, instead putting cash on the collection plate week by week—which of course has completely dried up. Most churchgoers are elderly and many know nothing of online banking.
There are no occasional offices in church at present, and in any case they were in sharp decline before covid.
Church halls are shut, so there is no rental income. Income from residential and commercial property is significantly reduced. Investment income has been decimated by the stock market crash.
Commissioners’ funds have taken a big hit for similar reasons.
Funds from parishes, sources 1, 2 and 3, go to:
Pay, pension and continuing training for all clergy except bishops and cathedral deans.
Diocesan advisers, administrators and secretaries
Churches, parish buildings and their maintenance
Funds from Commissioners, source 4, go to:
National mission initiatives
Central administration (Church House London, Lambeth Palace), large and Byzantine.
Subventions to dioceses to help plug the gap between what comes in from parishes and what goes out in pay and pensions. Such subventions do not close that gap.
Most dioceses are using reserves or are already bust.
Liverpool has furloughed some clergy.
Sheffield even before covid was aiming to reduce paid clergy numbers by almost a half in the next few years.
Worcester has asked the public for donations to pay clergy.
Chelmsford has told parishes if they can’t stump up £60K annually, they won’t get a paid parson.
It’s acknowledged or rumoured that Truro, Hereford, Sodor and Man, Blackburn, Manchester, Newcastle, Derby, Leicester, St Edmundsbury & Ipswich, Southwark, Rochester, Portsmouth, and Guildford (Surrey of all places!) are at the edge or just tipping over. Others too possibly.
One source who knows Carlisle diocese said that the only reason it isn’t bust yet is because it doesn’t spend anything – and as a Carliolian by birth and Cumbrian by descent and upbringing, I see this as admirable prudence.
Clergy pay and pensions
Consider these figures.
1 Archbishop of Canterbury £85,070
1 Archbishop of York £72,900
1 Bishop of London £66,820
39 other diocesan bishops £46,180
About 60 suffragan (assistant) bishops £37,670
43 Deans £37,670 (Dean of Oxford not remunerated by the Church)
About 100 Archdeacons £36,100
Ordinary paid parsons £25,265 minimum (about 5000 I guess)
Although the typical parson receives an annual stipend of just over £25K, the cost to the parishes is about £60K since the parish share also funds the parson’s pension and continuing training, parsonage maintenance, and diocesan staff such as mission advisers, safeguarding advisers, vocations advisers, and other advisers, administrators and secretaries. The church collects the money and passes it to the dioceses that then pay the clergy. Wealthy parishes that pay more than £60K in theory subsidise poor parishes that can’t afford to. Some do. Other wealthy parishes resent giving their money to an organisation that they disapprove of and withhold what they are asked to pay as a form of blackmail.
Since income from parishioners (source 1) has now dried up, the Commissioners recently loaned the dioceses £75 million to tide them over the covid crisis. Note: loaned—I’ll return to that. The pension is a significant call on funds, for it is a non-contributory defined benefit pension with a generous lump sum. Furthermore, for Archdeacons, Deans and Bishops, the pension enhancement that comes from their increased pay is backdated to the year of their entry into clerical orders—this could amount to 20 years’ worth enhanced pension.
Pensions used to be the responsibility of the Commissioners, but in 1997, after the Commissioners had had their fingers burnt, they were passed to the dioceses, that is the parishes. Parish income having now collapsed, the Commissioners will have to pick up the cost, and this will leave a big hole in their assets—unless of course clergy pay and pensions were to be slashed.
Sources 1, 2 and 3 also fund the building. Think ancient, damp, roof, structure, stained glass, organs, plumbing, electrics, heating, and more. Think of a building the size of a small cathedral, often to be found in inner city deprived areas, sustained by a regular congregation of say 25 people all over the age of 60.
Remember that the vast majority of congregations are numerically tiny, elderly, and on pensions. As a result of the lockdown they have lost the habit of weekly attendance. Lost habits are hard to re-establish. Will they want to return given the anxiety that will persist about catching the virus? How many will still be alive next year? Another issue is that many churchgoers have loyalty not to Christianity, nor to the parson, but to the building and, in rural areas, to the graveyard where they wish to be buried with their ancestors.
Why would these people continue to give to church funds if they’ve stopped attending? And it’s unwise to put any faith in online worship: it brings in no money, it requires web access and equipment, it is yet another task, and it is questionable how well supported it will be when people are able to resume “normal” activities.
The Commissioners fund, in short, cathedrals, bishops, central administration, training institutions and mission initiatives. In 1997 their assets were about £2.5 billion. After they stopped funding clergy pensions, assets grew to about £8 billion. As I said earlier, that’s being eaten into as I write: property prices and rental incomes are slashed, markets are depressed, and with working from home here to stay, rent from commercial properties is in short supply. And now they will have to take back most or all the pensions burden.
So far, then:
Parishes are in the red and reserves are being gobbled up.
Dioceses are in the red and reserves are being gobbled up.
The £75 million loaned to the dioceses some weeks ago won’t last long – it may already have run out. How can dioceses be expected to pay back this loan?
Prospects are gloomy.
You can see why there’s a money problem.
And I hope you can see that the biggest drain on funds is clergy pay and pensions.
What to do?
Closing and selling off churches has been suggested.
Who wants them? Few are amenable to other uses. They wouldn’t raise much cash given present property prices, and once a church is sold, it’s sold.
If they are sold, the heritage brigade will be up in arms: national heritage, part of the landscape. belong to the community, the people’s patrimony – all this they will cry. Morally, selling them to fund the religious activity of a dwindling sect is questionable since the buildings over the centuries were largely funded from taxation or levies and so can indeed be said to belong to the people.
Most significant of all, many—most—people are emotionally and atavistically attached to churches whether they attend or not: churches are community temples and memory deposits; they are often focal points of community cohesion. People care about churches and graveyards, but they don’t care about a resident parson. To them, buildings matter more than clergy or doctrine. Many clergy, and I suspect bishops too, find this difficult to stomach: they regard churches as inconvenient and expensive money pits and would rather worship in a warm industrial unit.
If churches were to be closed and/or sold, how would decisions be made and by whom? Many of the poorest churches are in the most deprived areas—the very areas where the churches do the most valuable work. Will the well scrubbed and well heeled of leafy suburbia be happy to see their money going to needle-strewn inner city parishes?
In summary, selling off churches would be a once-off; it wouldn’t raise much; and it would be hugely unpopular with a substantial and vocal section of the public. It would, truly, strike at the nature of the culture we have inherited.
So how about reducing pay and pension costs?
Since all clergy will in future have to be paid by the Commissioners, change the whole basis. Abolish all differentials. Pay all clergy the same, bishops the same as parsons, and reimburse expenses in full according to the nature of the work. It’s worth noting that clergy in France, including bishops, get less than a half of what a C of E parson gets. Yes, French clerics are unmarried, but then most C of E clerics have earning partners.
Restructure the pension scheme to be more in line with almost every other: contributory, DC, realistic lump sum.
Cull paid clergy
Reduce numbers by at least two thirds, those remaining being sited strategically in accordance with population or geographical factors. Most churches could be served by unpaid clergy living locally, selected by local agreement.
Stop – now – recruitment to paid posts. A few years ago there was a national drive to recruit more young people to the ranks of stipendiary clergy. This was immoral then, and is much more so now. There is no way that the church will be able to fund them for say 40 years, let alone provide a pension.
All other paid clergy to take early retirement, packages funded by the Commissioners.
Ordain nonstipendiary ministers as required on the basis of local recommendation, and after rigorous training.
But: do turkeys vote for Christmas?
Within one hour by road of where I sit there are five, maybe six diocesan offices, finance departments, safeguarding teams, mission teams … and so on. So:
Merge all 42 diocesan administrations into one central body, sited in the midlands or the north. Think of the likely savings and increased efficiency.
Dioceses should retain only pastoral functions.
Ordained diocesan staff now surplus to requirements should serve in parishes or use their skills in other careers.
Bishops don’t need cathedrals (Lutheran style), so cathedrals to become merely churches with historic titles only (Presbyterian Church of Scotland). Deans, chapters, residentiary canonries to be abolished. Musical and other mission activities could – should – survive, appropriately funded.
Fabric and maintenance of large churches and “cathedrals” to be funded centrally, perhaps with the introduction of a voluntary church tax (continental style) to support only the fabric (but not the activities within). Maybe HMRC would deal with this. Or perhaps, French style, fabric could become the responsibility of the state given the payment by the Commissioners of a suitable dowry. Unfortunately, available funds are unlikely to be adequate, and the economic and political circumstances are far from propitious.
All other churches to be run by unpaid clergy and/or lay minsters living in their own homes.
There are too many churches, especially in towns, so churches could be offered to local communities. Unwanted churches should be abandoned or demolished.
Sell all parsonages no longer required.
Bishops and dioceses
Some say we need fewer, some say we need more.
Option 1: reduce the number of dioceses and diocesan bishops from 42 to about 17, and the number of suffragans from about 60 to 14 or so, suggested * below, on the basis of population and/or area and communications.
Durham, Newcastle *
Carlisle, Blackburn, Sodor & Man *
Liverpool, Manchester, Chester *
Lichfield, Coventry, Birmingham *
Hereford, Worcester, Gloucester
Bristol, Bath and Wells, Salisbury *
Exeter, Truro *
Winchester, Portsmouth, Guildford
Southwark, Rochester, Canterbury *
London * *
Norwich, St Edmundsbury & Ipswich *
Ely, St Albans
Peterborough, Leicester *
Sheffield, Southwell. Derby *
This would run the risk of fewer bishops feeling more important with a regrettable further increase in clericalism.
Increase the number of dioceses and bishops from 42 to about 150 – maybe each deanery as at preset becoming a “diocese” (do we need the title?).
No suffragan bishops needed, nor Archdeacons or Deans since a cathedral is now no more than a church with a history.
No fancy titles. No House of Lords. No pay differentials. No purple shirts. No clericalism. No establishment. Perhaps these “bishops” would be the only paid clergy.
Increase the number of unpaid clergy. Ordain on the basis of local recommendation and need,
A difficult business, especially given the shortage of funds. At present there are nine residential institutions and a multiplicity of local part time courses. Some clergy are trained for three years full time, others (like me) for two years part time with a few residential weekends. There is no agreed national curriculum. Some students are grounded in New Testament Greek, some are not. Some are fed the arcane enthusiasms of course staff.
I don’t know what the future of training will be, but online learning and e-resources are essential. We don’t need so many training institutions, but we do need:
Standardisation with agreed curriculum.
Intelligent study of Scripture.
Instruction in basic liturgical history and praxis.
Instruction in church history.
Extensive e–resources in the widest possible sense.
And finally …
This is a great opportunity for radical action. The church does not need a sticking plaster, but rather a scalpel wielded mercilessly to drain the abscesses. “I came not to send peace, but a sword.”
I thank many people for stimulating me to think about this, and am particularly grateful to “Froghole”, Rupert Moreton, Andy Sparrow and Susan Monkhouse.
A piece for the church newsletter, provoked by my son who asked pertinent questions last week
I’ve been to A&E twice recently. It was very quiet, in contrast to what it was like BC – before covid. I hear that GP surgeries are quiet too because people are nervous about going. What with the virus and all, people are anxious about lots of things, especially their health – or lack of same. This is because they’ve not been taught properly about human biology. I thought I’d begin to rectify the defect.
The first and most important rule is: it’s probably not worth going.
When cats and dogs are ill, they lie still until they get better. On the whole, we get better despite doctors, not because of them.
Surgeries and hospitals are full of ill people so you might catch something.
People die in hospitals, so if you don’t go, you won’t die (there’s a logical fallacy there).
Doctors sometimes don’t listen: they jump to conclusions because they’re in a hurry to get rid of you due to government rules.
Doctors often don’t know, but they bluster because you expect them to know everything.
Now, read my lips: if you can’t see blood, if you can walk and talk normally, if your excretory functions are more or less as usual, and if you have only a few aches and pains, stop moaning and don’t be such a wuss. It’ll probably get better on its own, though you may die first.
Sometimes, though, needs must.
Blood belongs in blood vessels – end of. If you see blood where it shouldn’t be, take action. Of course, if you cut yourself, you’ll bleed – I don’t mean that.
Broken bones, torn ligaments and torn tendons need fixing. If it’s not a bit better after a few days, find a joiner.
Plumbing. This is a biggie. There are lots of pipes in the body: blood, lymph, food, digestive juices, piss. They can get blocked, they can leak.
Always look at your faeces. Any inexplicable change in colour, consistency or smell needs attention. Blood on or in stools or on bog paper is suspicious unless you can account for it (e.g. piles). Dark stools might mean bleeding higher up, perhaps in the stomach, the blood being digested on the way down giving dark turds. But be sensible: if you had six pints of Guinness last night, don’t be surprised if the turds are dark. If you’re on iron tablets likewise. Use common sense if the Guinness has left you with any.
If you’re constipated, you probably need to adjust your diet. There are other more serious causes, but common things are common so we’ll stick with common.
If you’ve got the squits, chances are you’ve got an infection. Let it out. Diarrhoea is the body’s way of expelling the irritating agent, so don’t take things to bung yourself up.
Urine: again, blood or inexplicable change always need attention.
The combination of pale stools and dark urine is serious. Bile (gall), dark green, passes in a tube from liver to intestine to help digest fats. If it doesn’t get there (gall stones or some other blockage) stools will be pale and, because fats are undigested, fatty and floating. Bile needs to get out somehow, so it passes into the blood, makes the skin yellow (jaundice), and is excreted by the kidneys into the urine, so the urine is dark. Gallstones are usually associated with pain and are easily dealt with, but other causes of blockage are not. The bile duct passes through the pancreas so pancreatic cancer can block it. By the time symptoms appear, the cancer is well advanced so it’s time to contact an undertaker.
Electrics: nerves and brain. Funny turns, weakness, tingling, numbness, paralysis, and so on. Doctors like to know what the cause is, and if it’s something pressing on the brain or nerves, then there’s hope. Otherwise, little can usually be done except easing the symptoms. Nerves recover very slowly if at all. If part of the brain is wiped out, another part can sometimes be trained to take over its function, but it’s very slow and unpredictable.
Some people think that disease is a punishment from an irascible sky pixie for stuff you’ve done or not done. This is drivel. We are machines. Machines break down. Things go wrong. Sometimes they can be fixed. Sometimes they can’t. Sometimes the treatment is worse than the disease so it’s better to put up with it, though this may be a great burden for you and those you live with.
Take responsibility for yourself. If you stuff your face with cream cakes don’t be surprised if you get fat and suffer from the diseases of obesity. And don’t expect to feel at 65 as good as you did at 20. Get real.
You’re going to die, and you don’t know when, so no matter how young you are, make a will, get your affairs in order, and make peace with those you feel you need to (but don’t go overboard – some people are gobshites and they’re not worth the effort).
Meanwhile, keep smiling, and remember that life is a terminal condition.
As Facebook friends may have read, a couple of weeks ago I had a funny turn.
Out walking the dog I felt fuzzy headed, vision even more blurry than usual, unable to walk in a straight line, slurred speech. No drink taken. Transient ischaemic attack (ministroke) thought I as I was lumbering about. Or brain tumour, or cerebellar disease, or inner ear disease.
I sat down, minded by two kind passers by who said I was pale and unsteady. Susan walked the dog home, brought the car and off to hospital. I was in hospital a fair bit as a child for tonsils, nasal polyps (x 3), appendix, teeth and broken bones, so I dislike hospitals intensely. Not only that, people die in them. So the fact that I willingly went says something important.
A&E was quiet. I was tended with efficiency and good humour. I was given a mask and learnt that nobody knows how to stop them steaming up your specs. ECG normal, head CT normal, BP 135/75 – beat that, suckers, given the amount of salt and butter I consume.
High dose aspirin was administered, blood thinner and statins prescribed. Statins I don’t like. Doctors don’t always know the difference between good and bad cholesterol. and the evidence for the efficacy of statins is equivocal. Anyhoo, when I had them once before they didn’t agree with me so I stopped them PDQ.
There’s an MRI next week and they mentioned continuous ambulatory heart monitoring. But I feel as if I’ll be wasting their time. I’ve no idea what caused the symptoms, and they don’t fit into any recognised disease pattern.
You see, dear reader, we’re just machines, and machines have glitches. Sometimes we know what causes the glitch, sometimes we don’t. I’ve found that the cure for a computer glitch is usually to turn it off then on again; for a TV or washing machine glitch, a hard bash or three usually does the trick.
So on this well-established principle, my treatment for this funny turn (a recognised medical expression by the way) was: kill or cure. The very next day I took up running.
Back in the 1980s I was a regular runner – not particularly fast but I could go for ages. Often up at 5.30 am to run a few miles in north Nottingham to Bulwell and back from Sherwood (a suburb, not the forest). A friend and I often went for a few miles round Wollaton Park at lunchtime, showering afterwards in the Anatomy mortuary, much to the amusement of the staff if not the cadavers. I even ran three half marathons.
In the 1990s I was at it again at lunchtime in Dublin from St Stephen’s Green to Phoenix Park and back with a colleague (students were shocked to see that Professors had legs), and at home in Djouce woods in County Wicklow. I opened the car boot, in jumped Petra (a ridgeback/lab cross, a wonderful dog) and up to the woods. We had a great time on the tracks and pathways. The woods, opposite Powerscourt waterfall, were known as an IRA training ground, but we never saw or heard anything interesting. I was really quite fit and lean. Then life intervened and I became, let’s say, less lean. Weightlifting became my thing.
Now senza gym and provoked by a funny turn it’s back to running.
But gently—not because I might die, for I certainly shall, but because I wish to minimise pain. At the age of 70 next month, muscles are good but ligaments and tendons are much more brittle. It hurts when they tear or rupture. Joint cartilages, too, need care.
Will I ever be back at the gym? When will it re-open? Will I at this age be allowed out of the house? Let me tell you, girls and boys, if the government says I’m not, I may well need to be visited in prison because doubtless some nosey parker reincarnation of an East German Stasi gobshite will report me for being a very naughty boy.
What if running provokes a catastrophic blowout? Well, that’ll be that. You’re welcome to the party after the funeral, if allowed. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, as my ole pal Fred Kneeshaw said.
But never mind. Her Majesty’s Government is in control. I have every confidence that they will act sensibly over gyms: reopen them now please. I have every confidence that they will raise money to pay for the largesse they’re doling out by making the super-rich pay more tax, by making multinationals like Amazon pay more tax, by stopping drug companies (they’re all evil) charging extortionately for things that are cheap to make, and by closing tax havens. Funds will cascade into government coffers. As I say, I have every confidence.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, every day in every way it gets easier and easier. And the dog is having a great time.
Coronavirus is the virus. Covid19 is the disease it causes. Coronaviruses have been with us a long time. The flu virus is one of them. Some common colds are caused by coronaviruses. Covid19 is caused by a new strain—hence the adjective novel. I dare say, dear reader, that you knew this. But I’m ashamed to say it hadn’t dawned on me until fairly recently. Now on with the plot.
I don’t see any prospect of controlling this pandemic until herd immunity has been achieved. Herd immunity comes from a combination of immunisation and recovery from infection.
A vaccine is at least a year away and anyway vaccines don’t always work. The first recorded influenza pandemic was in 1510. We haven’t yet fathomed the disease and a flu vaccine is as far away as ever. Furthermore, the common cold, sometimes of coronaviral aetiology, eludes all cures. The polio vaccine took decades to be usable, though we’ve moved on scientifically from then. I’m old enough to remember the polio epidemic of 1957/8. As an asthmatic child often fighting for breath, pictures of children in iron lungs terrified me.
For recovery from infection we need about 60% of the population to be infected, with the inevitable proportion having life threatening disease and dying. The trouble is that this virus has great propensity to mutate. Its mutated forms could be more vicious than the present one, and herd immunity, or vaccines for that matter, for the present strain won’t necessarily work for new ones. So we are faced with the possibility of wave upon wave of epidemic. Epidemics in general are occurring with increasing frequency (Asian flu, polio, SARS, foot & mouth, Ebola, now this … and more).
And of course there’s always the possibility that new viruses will emerge.
Viruses are clever. They use other creatures for reproduction—their only concern—remorselessly. Just as tectonic plates do the “things that come naturally” leading to quakes and tsunamis, so viruses do the “things that come naturally” leading to morbidity and mortality in vulnerable creatures including humans. It is the natural order.
Viruses are as much part of creation as we are. Praying to a sky pixie for delivery from the pestilence of viruses, as religious nutters do, is no more than human arrogance and hubris. We have viruses in our intestines, necessary for digestion, just as we have billions of bacteria living in us and on us, all necessary for an efficient bioeconomy. Are they asking the sky pixie to discern which bugs to zap and which to leave unhindered?
If covid19 were left unchecked, the best option scientifically, it would amount to survival of the fittest. The trouble is that the burden on the health services would soon be catastrophic. The strategy adopted, distancing and such like, spreads the load over a longer period. But no matter how we get there, herd immunity is needed—and may never be achieved. I suspect that governments have been informed of this, but dare not admit it publicly.
This brings me to the reliability of what we are told. Take today’s BBC news item “New data has added to growing evidence that the number of deaths linked to coronavirus in UK care homes may be far higher than those recorded so far.” Note the vagueness. “Deaths linked to coronavirus” – what does that mean? Deaths “may be” linked. They may not. Just because someone with a cough and pneumonia dies, it doesn’t mean they died of covid19, nor does it mean that the virus contributed to their death. Only testing will tell, so we need reliable tests. Not all tests are reliable. If one reads only the headlines, and many of us do just that, it’s easy to panic.
Ultimately—and I wish people would realise this—we’re all going to die, if not of covid19 this month, then something else later. And let me repeat that as someone with a great future behind him, I would expect a younger person who could get back to work to jump the treatment queue before me. I’m ready to die, though I don’t want to yet.
I don’t much care what others think this says about my morality: to me it’s pragmatic necessity. I acknowledge that I have a peculiar, even brutal, attitude to death. It comes from having seen death as welcome in severely ill people especially babies, having handled cadavers in anatomy dissection rooms for 30 years, and having suffered the death of one of my sons.
Turning from biology to economic and political affairs, the consequences of the pandemic could be serious in Europe, and cataclysmic elsewhere.
In the west, an economic slump of staggering magnitude is almost certain: some economic historians have said the worst in 10 generations (400 years), others 200 years, and certainly 100 years. As one commentator put it, it’s almost as if the virus were tailor-made to strike at capitalism. The financial markets are in turmoil. What will happen to the banks? Fewer people will be able to buy houses, house prices will plummet (a good thing you might say), savings wiped out, pensions destroyed. Power cuts, shortages, rubbish uncollected, unemployment, poverty, civil unrest, suicides. Back to the middle ages. Governments won’t be able to bail us out: national economies will be in the doldrums for decades after the financial largesse already being handed out. Taxes will rise. This economic reality is already fuelling demands for the lockdown to be lifted so that people can get back to work.
Elsewhere – a worst-case scenario
China is already buying up commodities now that the prices are rock bottom.
The US sees covid19 as China’s fault and demands reparations. China says no. The US refuses to pay back interest on its substantial loans from China. China sees this as an act of economic war. Then what?
The slump in oil prices destabilises the Middle East, especially Saudi. Oil supplies are cut. Dictators emerge.
The Russian economy being too dependent on oil, Putin invades Ukraine for food and the Baltics for minerals. Will Western Europe fight for the Baltics?
The peace since 1945 has been dependent upon economic prosperity. When that is taken away nationalism rises and fights are picked.
Africa is devastated. Infected migrants hammer at Europe’s doors. Shots are fired to keep them out: many will be killed.
I imagine something similar could happen in South and Central America – poor and populous.
The already creaking EU disintegrates.
Surveillance becomes intrusive (it’s getting that way already).
Totalitarian governments take over. Maybe China takes over. Or Russia.
Now, you may say that this is unduly bleak. But none of it is beyond the bounds of possibility.
I could be wrong. Part of me hopes I am. Part of me thinks that our lifestyle in the West is dissolute and decadent and needs sorting. But events that lead to correction of our lifestyle will likely lead to horrific, in human terms, sequelae for the third world—which now includes much of our inner urban areas.
Life is a terminal disease, its death rate 100%. People are going to die of this and other viruses. Measles is coming back. Polio and Ebola and Foot & Mouth lurk in the shadows ready to erupt unpredictably. The best thing we could do for one another is to help each other come to terms with uncertainty and mortality. I did my best from the pulpit and I do my best through my blog.
The fact is that there are too many people on the planet. There are far too many cooped up. Maybe the planetary ecosystem is resetting itself. I’m not a proponent of the Gaia theory, but I know that we reap what we sow. At present we are reaping. As far as creatures of the earth are concerned, apes like us are vulnerable, impotent and expendable.
But never mind. The sun is shining, the sky is clear, riverbeds visible, air cleaner. The night sky is spectacular. This virus is doing the planet a favour. Perhaps too it’s the scalpel that releases pus from the putrid abscess of aggressive capitalism.
I thank James Drever and others for help with this, but please don’t associate them with my prognostications.
Even experts must be scratching their heads a bit in dealing with the pandemic. It can’t be otherwise, for this is a novel virus, and novel means novel. The virus is more infectious/contagious than was first thought (but not as much as say measles) and more virulent/fatal (but not as much as say Ebola). It’s difficult to plan in such circumstances.
I left full time medical practice in 1976, and I’m no political pundit, but I have a certain breadth of vision, so bear with me as I look ahead.
I don’t see any prospect of “controlling” this pandemic until herd immunity has been achieved. Herd immunity comes from a combination of immunisation and recovery from infection. A vaccine is about a year away, so in the meantime that leaves recovery from infection. We are faced with the prospect of more than half the population needing to be infected with the inevitable proportion having life threatening disease and dying.
If the disease were to be left unchecked, the burden on the health services would soon be catastrophic. The strategy adopted—distancing and such like—spreads the load over a longer period. But ultimately herd immunity is needed. I suspect that governments have been informed of this, but daren’t admit it publicly to a populace that has forgotten how to deal with uncertainty and mortality.
The trouble is that even if herd immunity is achieved, coronavirus, being an RNA virus, may well mutate, the new strain possibly more virulent than its predecessor. So back to square one. And of course there’s always the possibility that new viruses will emerge.
We’re a drop in the ocean compared to New York, Africa, India, the Far East, Central and South America. Economic and political consequences could be serious in Europe, and cataclysmic elsewhere. Read on.
China is already buying up commodities now that the prices are rock bottom.
US sees covid19 as China’s fault and demands reparations. China says no. US refuses to pay back interest on its very substantial loans from China. China sees this as an act of war. Then what?
The slump in oil prices destabilises the Middle East, especially Saudi. Oil supplies are cut. Dictators emerge.
Vladimir Vladimirovich has economic problems in Moscow, the Russian economy too dependent on oil, and invades Ukraine for food and the Baltics for minerals.
Africa is devastated. Infected migrants hammer at Europe’s doors. Ammunition is deployed to keep them out.
The EU, already creaking, disintegrates.
Surveillance becomes intrusive (it’s going that way now).
Totalitarian governments take over. China takes over? Russia takes over?
As for the financial largesse being doled out at present, that will have to be paid for. Meanwhile, power cuts, shortages, economic hardship, civil unrest, back to the middle ages.
Now, you may say that this is unduly bleak. I admit I can be a bit of a catastrophist. But none of this is beyond the bounds of possibility. Interesting times ahead – a distraction from brexit anyway (remember that?). Don’t expect a quick resolution.
There are too many people on the planet – or at least too many banged up in cities. As far as creatures of the earth are concerned, apes like us are vulnerable, impotent and expendable.
Maybe the planetary ecosystem is resetting itself. A spring clean.
I thank James Drever, Andrew Paterson, and others for their help with this, but please don’t associate them with my prognostications.
So, girls and boys, out we go for a walk with Bella the Staffy.
As we approach the Trent and Mersey canal, a young man walking purposefully in the same direction overtakes us. We exchange pleasantries. Then, surprisingly, he stops. We catch up with him just as another young man approaches from the opposite direction. With sleight of hand the two guys exchange something. They retreat whence they came.
User and supplier, we mused? Which was which?
What does it take you to get through the day?
Nicotine/tobacco. The sense of calming and release can be blissful, I gather.
Alcohol? At a funeral of a wealthy 40-something year old who died of alcoholic liver disease, I said from the pulpit that anyone who ever encouraged him to “just have one more” was complicit in his death.
Exercise, fitness? The endorphins released are addictive.
Sex? Porn? Likewise.
Golf? I’m not old enough to play golf, but I’m told that it’s quite popular amongst the brain dead.
Other drugs? Cannabis is less dangerous than alcohol. Cannabis rice krispie cakes are delicious.
Religion? Yes. The ecstatic trances of mystics are well known to be comparable to—even equate to—orgasm.
Am I saying that for many people religion is merely a prop to help them get through the day, on a par with smoking or drugs or booze?
Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.
Here are some other things we can be addicted to: money, power, controlling others, pleasing people, wanting to change people, gambling, internet, social media, books, buying stuff you don’t need, gossiping, criticizing, moaning, being miserable.
Some are financially more expensive than others, but there isn’t one that’s any worse than any other. They can all destroy us. It’s as hard for you to let go of your addiction to new clothes, or whatever, as it is for someone else to put down the drink or the syringe.
They’re like demons. They steal our personalities and stop us being ourselves. They deny us our freedom. They make us obsess about ourselves instead of serving others.
We’re all wounded because of stuff that’s happened to us. We all need something to dull the pain. We develop patterns of behaviour to protect us from these hurts. Whatever “pain relief” we choose—substances, attitudes, activities, religion—can be dangerous. We become addicted to them.
We’re all addicted to something—several things in my case. Look at your addictions. If you think you haven’t any, you’re blind.
All the vain things that charm you most—accept that they are part of you. Think of them as controlling different versions of yourself. Then give that version of yourself a cuddle. You begin to love the hell out of yourself. You might have to accept that some will stay with you till you die.
This is not easy. But even beginning the process is a kind of renewal. Nobody is perfect. Nobody has a perfect upbringing.