I've read that prisoners who spend long stretches in jail find it hard reintegrating back into society once released and think I may be experiencing something similar with the relaxing of Covid restrictions.
My first trip into town was unsettling. Having spent months in my back garden with human contact restricted to Zoom meetings, I found being close to people disconcerting.
First off, nobody seems to know what constitutes two metres – and why did the Government go metric anyway? If they'd told us to stay six feet apart we'd have understood straight away, but two metres? They may as well have said stay two cubits apart.
I'd brought my own face mask for going into shops but, putting it on, I felt I should be carrying a gun and shouting, "right, everybody, hit the ground". I guarantee there are guys my age getting on buses wearing face masks and having flashbacks, searching their pockets for non-existent petrol bombs.
I know I'll get used to face masks, we'll all have to. I am confused as to why face mask manufacturers advertise their masks as 'breathable'. In comparison to what, the non-breathable variety? Breathable or not, my mask caused my glasses to fog up, so every 10 feet I was forced to take them off for a clean. It was all rather pathetic.
With foggy glasses and people not staying a safe distance, this first much-anticipated trip out was a let-down. So, when my friend Terry McHugh invited me to visit him at home for tea and nibbles ahead of his 40th birthday, I accepted with some trepidation.
As a card-carrying introvert, I don't do birthday parties, even my own. When I turned 50, my wife asked if I'd mind if she invited some close friends for a small party.
"Of course, I wouldn't mind," I said. "I won't be there, so why should I mind?"
But I couldn't say no to Terry. Those who've come to my live shows over the last four years know he's an integral part of the night. Not only is he a brilliant 'opener', he also fulfils the role of my unpaid carer on the road, ministering to my many ailments, though his own health isn't exactly robust.
I've affectionately nicknamed him 'Two Stroke Terry' as he's had two strokes in the last couple of years; on top of that, he's only one-and-a-half lungs. Why that is is a long story he's best equipped to tell, once he catches his breath. I've often thought when you combine my broken back and his strokes and lung deficiencies, our show surely should qualify for a government grant.
One thing I insisted on before my visit was that a six-foot distance was maintained; Terry agreed, regularly whipping out his tape measure during the evening. I noticed his measurements increased as his consumption of beer increased. I also noticed he drank Corona; I'm sure this was a dig at my Covid paranoia.
I didn't tell him an added incentive for my visit was that I'd finally meet his psychotic rooster, a mythic beast which terrorises his household. Again, those who've seen us on tour will know all about this feathered demon which attacks his family at every opportunity.
As soon as I got out of the car, I could see its Jurassic Park-style enclosure beside the house and immediately headed over. Terry ran after me, shouting "Don't put your fingers through the mesh or it'll have them off".
Now, I'm not going to lie, this was a big chicken; in fact, I'd call it the Mike Tyson of the poultry world. Tyson slowly turned his beady eyes as I approached, puffing out his substantial chest. It looked two-foot-tall, the biggest chicken I'd ever seen – and, having grown up on a farm, I've seen a lot of chickens.
I couldn't retreat knowing Terry was trotting behind me, so I walked straight up to the cage and, ignoring his warning, stuck my finger through the mesh. Tyson pulled his beak back as I closed my eyes, resigned to losing a digit, but instead of striking, he clucked, shook his feathers and strutted off. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm a chicken whisperer.
I don't think the problem lies with the chicken: it's Terry's fault. His story is Crocodile Dundee in reverse. A Belfast boy transplanted to rural Tyrone, the only chicken he'd previously known was fried in a basket. Tyson somehow knows this, so I look forward to more videos of him chasing the city boy round the garden.
Happy birthday, Terry.
