Plan B - Expat in Kaliningrad, Russia

How was it for you?

Published: 3 January 2022 ~ Christmas in the Land of Vax

It was very hit and miss, as though they had taken a leaf out of the government’s ‘How to Pretend that we are Dealing with Coronavirus Convincingly’ manual, the question should the Sheep family invite their relatives, the Woollies, from Scotland to spend Christmas with them or should the Sheep spend Christmas with the Woollies in Sockland?

Christmas was closing in faster than a new coronavirus variant, and with the distinct possibility that Boris might do a U-turn on vaccine passports using Plan B (which some unpleasant people say stands for ‘Bollocks’), it was be damned if you do, be damned if you don’t, and be buggered if anyone from government to Abdul knew what was going on?

One thing the Sheep were sure of was that they had better decide soon before more authoritarianism was brought to bear in the name of beneficent government. Two new strains, mainly on credulity, and 300 additional threats to society, had already been detected in two 5-star hotels, The Grinning Boaters and The Froggy Freeloaders, located on the outskirts of Dover.

Following this discovery, as reported by Nigel Farage, Downing Street immediately issued a warning that Christmas parties, possibly Christmas itself, may have to be cancelled, whilst a silly old chap who works for The Grimstarnian, Jenkinspoop, had nothing better to do than sit at home in his face mask and write an incredibly banal and spurious treatise on the UK’s need for unlimited mountains of migrants, as if he had never heard of Brexit and had no idea why the Labour party had been wiped out in the last election. A possible reason for his renewed confidence in the Kalergi Plan was the recent news that the neoliberals had set the democratic seesaw in motion giving Labour a nine-point lead. ‘Stupid, yes! But not that Stupid Surely!’, Bongo wrote, who had obviously no idea of what it was like to live in a democratic country, although he had booked his hotel and was on his way ~ at speed !

It was little Amanda Sheep who finally brought the question on where to spend Christmas to a decisive conclusion, recalling that the last Christmas they had spent in Sockland had been extremely close to putrid.

The jokes in the Christmas crackers were atrocious: “Question: Where’s the smallest airfield in the world? Answer: Up a Scottish kilt, two hangars and a spitfire!”; Uncle McSock got so sloshed on cheap whisky that he ended up with his sporran on his chin; his wife Agnus ‘Haggis’ McSock insisted on forcing noise out of an instrument that was the equivalent of blowing up the arse of a tortured cat; and the whole evening descended into chaos when someone mentioned Bonny Prince Charlie in the same breath as Nicola Sturgeon. The only person who seemed to be enjoying himself, little Mac McSock, sometimes fondly referred to as ‘Plastic’ or ‘Flashing’, spent the entire evening of Christmas Day locked in his bedroom, practising, or so his mother said, for the Edinburgh and Glasgow Caber Tossing Championship. Little Mac desperately needed a smaller ego, almost as much as he needed greater magnification in the lenses of his spectacles.

Christmas in the Land of Vax a Scotsman blowing up a cat's arse

So, the Sheep remained in England (where else?), where things had gone from bad moral high-ground to sanctimonious worse-ground. Not only was it looking more likely that Boris and Sergeant Daftit were about to go Nazi on vaccine passports (conveniently given the blue light by Omicron) but had introduced more punitive measures in the interests of saving people so that they could spend the rest of their lives in mortal dread of ever going anywhere and seeing anyone again.

This course of action, Plan C (and, for the sake of proprietary we won’t divulge what the ‘C’ stands for, although it is obvious to the majority) has been launched in the name of Protecting the NHS, which by clever coincidence would seem to rhyme with ‘what a nasty mess’. In other words, the UK, like many other countries, seemed to be sliding reptiliously into vaccine passport dystopia. Not only would you not be allowed into pubs, restaurants and nightclubs without an electronic tracking vaccine passport, but added to the no-go list would be DIY shops, non-food store outlets, garden centres and sex shops ~ the latter prohibition would impact really badly on Simon Sheep’s Christmas present list ~ whatever would they buy granny now? (You see, she was a progeny of the progressive and permissive 1960s!)

Christmas in the Land of Vax

So, the Sheep stayed at home and in the tradition of the UK’s meek and tolerant had a ‘make do and mend’ Christmas as their forbears had before them. There are parallels to be drawn here, based on believing what you are told: One generation had gone to war believing that they were fighting to preserve their country (look at it today!); the present generation, who do not feel quite so entitled anymore, believe that in the new war between coronavirus and traditional freedoms our governments are fighting for us. Gullible and Naïve, the London department store, one street lower than Downing Street (is that possible?), were offering a multi-complex, multi-irrational, multi-cultural (am I repeating myself?) solution to getting into their store. Once, all you needed to do was open the door, but now it was lateral flow tests and PCRs (the only things missing are ‘I’ and ‘K’).

Before anyone could think of Christmas shopping, however, there was the house to decorate. Luckily the Sheeps were forward-thinking people. They had been first in the queue when coronavirus was announced and were fortunate enough to have a several bog rolls left from the 20,000 that they had stockpiled in the Great Panic Buying Bog Roll Bonanza of 2020, and big Boris Sheep, in between making plans from the alphabet ~ he would soon be on ‘Triple Z’ ~ recalling his days at public school, when he made enough Christmas decorations from his parent’s allowance to give Oxford the ring road it badly required, set about making paper chains out of used face masks.

The Christmas tree was an ingenuity stretcher, it almost made them wish that Christmas had been banned, as the leftist predecessors to the Religion of Woke wanted it to be back in the days of Sir Tony, but eventually Boris saved the day (sniggers and guffaws) with his Plan ‘Other Characters’ by suggesting that Keir Starmer come round and stand in the corner with his arms out ~ well he had to have some use. Then they dusted off their ancient decorations, including Ed’s Balls, draped the tree in sycophants and lush-living liberal lefties and stuck a great big gender-neutral fairy on the top. Good heavens, how he/she/it/other looked like Larry Grayson! ‘Shut that door!’ It’s too late Larry!

As the big day approached, with Big Pharma cashing in on the traditional uptake of the ‘day after’ pills, Big Tech on the volume of gadgets purchased, mostly during Black (whoops, you can’t say that) Friday, the Sheep family settled down for their second coronavirus Christmas.

As the whole family had been vaccinated more times than you and I have taken a knee, obtaining the components for the traditional Christmas dinner had been as easy as conning countless liberals to vote Remain and then later to remain in their houses.

Eating Christmas dinner with a face mask on had been a very messy business, especially whilst wearing a silly paper hat and a pair of rubber gloves, but at least the latter concealed grotesquely chapped hands from excessive hand-washing and the neurotic application of disinfecting wipes.

As the Sheep family live in Dover, shortly after watching the Queen of Coronavirus’s Speeches by Fool-Them-All Fauci, they retired to the lounge where from their bay windows they had the perfect view of the little boats arriving along the coast. Such heart-warming scenes to be sure! Scores of happy, smiling Christmas migrants gift-wrapped by the French and welcomed ashore by British policeman, who, if truth be told (but only by Sorryarse Fact Checkers!), were rather pleased to have been given this cushy detail, having spent most of the past 12 months either investigating mean tweets or bursting into people’s homes to see if the residents had their masks on.

After a nice glass of Dover Port, which gets more full bodied with every passing month, the Sheep family played ‘WHO Dunnit to Them’, a game by Public Health Charades, in which little Dick Sheep made then all howl with laughter at his superb rendition of a non-vaccinated white man banned from everywhere including his own country ~ they all had another booster shot after seeing that one!

They then watched WHO Dunnit on the television. It wasn’t a bad film, but the plot was so unbelievable, especially at the end where Herculean Plotdemic was about to reveal who the killer really was when thankfully a message popped up on the screen redirecting viewers to the true version of events and Herculean Plotdemic never got another job again, at least not in liberal-lefty lovie land.

They then watched the popular soap opera Coronavirus Streets, which was a touch boring as the entire cast just sat in their houses two-metres apart from each other, twiddling on their outsmart-them phones, and finished off with a quick game of pin the face mask on granny. By now they were getting tired, but fortunately the BBC were running a Dr Who Christmas Special (not to be confused with you know WHO!) and this programme certainly Woke them up!

At 7 o’clock the guests arrived. Only two out of 25 were allowed in, as the others hadn’t been vaccinated. Natural immunity and proven antibodies were no excuse. It was essential (for someone) that anyone coming into the house was vaccinated first, had a Visitors to Your Home DIY Vaccination Kit, played music from the Third Reich and wore small black moustaches, whilst the rest of the family chanted something from a liberal-left website about ‘Thank you for thinking of others and saving their lives for them’ at which everyone fell about for at least 30 proper seconds in a state of rapture bordering on orgasm. Little Dick hadn’t seen anything like this since Tony Blair was elected Chancellor and was then given a knighthood for turning the UK into a kebab shop.

The evening was not entirely ruined, however, as it was not snowing that heavily outside and the non-vaccinated, who were used to being outcasts, they had learnt to accept their place in the New World Order when smoking was banned in pubs and restaurants, accepted their lot cheerfully. Huddling up in the cold was no new thing for them, and besides it was a lot better than being pumped full of a biological substance that didn’t give young, fit, medically proven A1 footballers heart attacks.

Christmas in the Land of Vax

Every now and again, whilst partner dancing six feet apart, little Amanda Sheep would chuck a roast potato or some brussels sprouts at the non-vaxxers from the bedroom window, and her little brother Boris would serve them drinks through the letterbox, wearing rubber gloves, of course, and a hairstyle that he had got out of a Christmas cracker that looked like a face mask blown inside out.

After that they played hide and sneak: someone hid a coronavirus and the rest of the group had to look for it whilst telling the authorities on their mobile phones who had not had the vaccine. This game was as limp as vaccine-induced impotence, as hopeless as finding an ounce of sense in Boris’ haystack and even more ludicrous than trying to stop a virus with a face mask.

Christmas in the Land of Vax an Arse Mask — **Arse Mask ~ the bottom line in Covid protection. As good as face masks but you’ll crack up whilst wearing them!**

Pass the Covid Parcel was far more successful. It was understandable: half of the room wore red rosettes the other half wore blue. It didn’t matter if the music stopped or not, since nobody took any notice, they all kept humming the same tune whilst passing the parcel one from the other — quickly. The coronavirus version of musical chairs was much the same as pass the parcel. “Pass the what?” some wag cried, who was particularly good at inventing cockney rhyming slang. And then came charades, well no need to explain that one, the name speaks for itself, although there was something about Nightingale Hospitals, ‘now you see them, now you don’t’, that nobody understood, least of all those who established them, never used them and then dismantled them. Ahh well, it would make sacking unvaccinated healthcare workers easier!

The highlight of Christmas day was watching the anti-totalitarian riots in Australia and Canada, whereupon the entire family concluded that you would think that they would have something better to do, such as making Facebook avatars with ‘I have had my vaccine’ written in rainbow colours around them or having an interim jab between their twice-minutely booster.

Having to vaccinate at every tick and turn is inconvenient, especially when the nearest vaccination point is 5 miles away. However, using her discount coupon from The Grimstarnian’s Covid Virtue Signalling page, little Amanda Sheep trotted off to her nearest store, proudly presented her lateral flow test and returned home with Christmas stockings full of Do-It-Yourself Coronavirus Testing Kits, the perfect companion to the Candle-Lit-Vigil Kits, which she had also bought using Virtue Signalling discount coupons from The Grimstarnian’s media website.

Then came the presents: Dick was chuffed with his map to the nearest vaccination clinic, ‘Oohh, it’s just what they’ve always wanted’; the elder brother, Boris, was given his own mobile vaccination centre ~ thus being assured of a job for life ~ he was even given a white coat with ‘I am a WHO scientist’ written on it and a Junior WHO Scientist Kit, the same one that the grown-ups had used to identify coronavirus with. Dad was content to receive a bumper pack of Bile Beans. He had been having a lot of difficulty lately adjusting to the latest propaganda ~ all those new stains! ~ and his Scrabble ability could certainly do with some kind of pill that claimed to cure everything.

Mother’s present was spectacular. She was given a brand-new bottle of vaccination paranoia tablets and a year’s free subscription to The Independent. She also joined Facebanned, a new social media site where account holders were routinely banned, blocked, barred, re-routed, suspended and eventually arrested for crimes against stupidity and for inciting logic and common sense.

Simon Sheep was given a New World Order coronavirus tie, with a Bill’s Gatepost chip inside. The beauty of this tie was that every time you thought or said something that you were not supposed to think or say the tie slowly throttled you. Thanks, Bill, you’re a brick (whoops, there goes that Windows’ spell checker again!).

At the end of the day they all had high temperatures, dry coughs and were feeling absolutely dreadful, although no one went so far as to say ‘like death warmed up’, but at least they could blame it on the Christmas alcohol. After all, it couldn’t be coronavirus, the whole family had been double jabbed and each and everyone had fitted themselves out with a strap-on mobile booster drip which, although physically inconvenient, saved an awful lot of time in running back and forth to hospitals and clinics — time which they could use to their advantage in practising social distancing and trying on their latest face masks.

Yes, it had been a lovely Christmas, and there was nothing to suggest that it would not be the same next year … and the next … and the next … and the next …