WELL, that’s January 2021 gone. As the anniversary of the arrival of Covid-19 in Northern Ireland approaches, it’s hard not to look back at how life was 12 months ago.
On January 30 2020 I was flat-out on my annual tour, playing the McNeill theatre in Larne. Well, when I say theatre, it’s more a room in a leisure centre, so close to the swimming pool that chlorine is the pervasive smell. But you know what, it was a great wee gig. I poked fun at the massive crown located on the roundabout into town, asking how much Burger King had paid the council for such tacky advertising.
Today, like many of you, I got up, unsure what day it was and struggled to find a reason to put on my clothes. I put them on anyway as my wife got fed up watching me walking around the house in my pyjamas, pointing out I resembled a poor man’s Hugh Heffner.
I said I was perfectly dressed for a man from north Belfast and if I was Heffner then she must be a Playboy bunny, something I didn’t see. Before you feel sorry for my wife, she gives as good as she gets; she said she’d happily stick on a bunny tail if I grew my hair and increased our bank balance by a few hundred million.
Thankfully, that’s been the level of tetchiness in the O’Kane household during lockdown, though that’s due to the perseverance of my wife more than any virtue on my part.
At the start of the first lockdown last March, I had a full-blown, paranoid brain fart. I closed my business – even though I didn’t have to – and prepared my family for what I saw as an inevitable zombie apocalypse. This time round, while I’m still cautious and follow the rules, my paranoia hasn’t reached the same level of hysteria.
While my friends are missing things they used to do, I miss the things I never did. I miss going for a wander round the shops, something I seldom did. I miss getting on a plane and flying off on holiday, even though my wife usually had to threaten divorce to get me near an airport.
I miss going for a trek up the Mournes, something I’ve been threatening to do for the past 10 years, but never did. And you know what, as soon as this damn Covid is over… you can be certain that, just like the rest of you, I won’t do any of the things I hadn’t done before.
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SINCE May 2020 MPs have been advised to cast their votes remotely due to Covid restrictions. Despite this, two local MPs reached the top six of Parliament’s expenses table.
Coming in at number six was Strangford MP Jim Shannon, who managed a total cost to the taxpayer of £252,298. But one above him was … wait for it… Ian Paisley, with an eye-watering cost of £253,824.
To put this into context, the average cost of an MP in 2019-20 was £157,747, with the least expensive being Liverpool Riverside MP Kim Johnson, with costs of just £7,392.
While there is no suggestion of illegality, one does wonder what propelled two minor MPs from a minor party to each accrue costs of a quarter of a million pounds.
Yet we should be grateful – but for Covid restrictions it could have been much worse. I mean, imagine what Ian Óg’s costs would have been if he’d been able to take his usual exotic ‘business trips’ abroad.
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AFTER Peter Weir’s disastrous mishandling of transfer tests, discussions in my home resemble a form of educational Cluedo as we discuss the myriad of school’s admission criteria.
I’d propose we simplify the whole process and let parents fight it out. Of course, there would be rules to ensure fair play, so coming from the New Lodge I’d be matched against three professional types from south Belfast.
There are two schools my daughter would like to attend, one Catholic, the other state. While she initially preferred the Catholic school, she admitted being put off when the girls showing her round the school’s sports facilities asked if she preferred golf football or karaoke. It took us a while, but eventually we worked out the girls had actually asked if she preferred Gaelic football or camogie.
Bearing this in mind, I’ve a strong suspicion she may be heading for the state school; that, or taking a crash course in Gaelic games.
