There's a tragic irony to Johnson's love of Churchill.
When Churchill became prime minister, he said: "I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat". He was honest about the severity of the situation and what it entailed. He didn't pretend everything would magically be alright.
Johnson's approach is the exact opposite. He runs from bad news like a dog from fireworks. He invents nonsense timetables by which everything will be fine.
He assumes the public need constant good news and sacrifices his own trustworthiness in order to provide it - it'll be over in six weeks, by Easter, by summer, by Christmas, by February, whatever.
It's equivalent to Churchill using his first speech as PM to insist the war will be over by Christmas.
Johnson clearly wants to be him and can muster some of the mannerisms of his language. But in terms of the core proposition of the man - the realism, sense of sacrifice and national mission, he is as distinct from him as it is possible to imagine.
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I remember now, how oppressive it became in the first lockdown, and now we're back in it again.
It's the increase in quantity from eating literally every meal in the house. It never stops. A ceaseless ever-growing mound of dirty plates. You feel like if you ignore it for two hours and you'll living in Withnail ad I.
I find it hard to put into words the degree of contempt I have developed for the anti-lockdown brigade in the right-wing press. Just the most appalling, irresponsible, self-serving, morally bankrupt Luddite delinquents.
Think of the NHS staff right now. Burned out, sometimes traumatised, working all hours, putting themselves at risk to keep the health service running. And all we have to do is stay at fucking home and not contribute to the problem.
But instead these loudmouth gobshites sit there actively trying to diminish public trust, which could lead to more people breaking the rules, which could lead to the NHS breaking. Pumping out their delusional horseshit in the mistaken that it somehow makes them interesting.
Lovely first few days of the year watching films, lazing about, reading newspapers in bed, cooking good food, drinking good wine, going on walks, playing records, sprawling out on the floor and reading comics.
A few days ago I was rather struggling with lock-down: missing pubs, restaurants, friends, work, the general bustle of a busy life.
I find it helps, if you can, to actively lower your expectations: to reset and limit your emotional bandwidth into assuming that home, and the nice things you can do in it, is all there is.
If the NHS breaks in the next few weeks - and sensible, well informed people are worrying about precisely that - it'll be because the government's failef to do what was necessary in the last two weeks and two coming ones.
And still the idiot masochist conspiracy theorists spew out their disinformation in the pages of supposedly respectable right wing newspapers, magazines and radio stations.
Utterly fucking incapable of grasping the reality of the situation or the human cost of their lies.
Hard to work out if this year will be one we remember forever or if it will be completely forgotten. For those of us lucky enough to stay inside and not lose anyone, there was so little content to remember it by.
Already, most of my memories are from March, when things felt ferocious and scary. The announcement of proper lockdown. A weird anxious behaviour I developed where I'd sporadically clean all the surfaces of the flat.
But from summer onwards, once we had a better handle on what was going on, I've already losing memories, because we have basically done the same thing every day.