VICE's most Forthright columnist takes time out of his busy diary of giving his ill-informed opinions about medical emergencies on major media platforms to bring you the real, painful truth that you're too self-obsessed to even hear. As told to Simon Childs.
A deadly virus threatens us all, consuming all before it, threatening us all. And no, I’m not talking about political correctness. Coronavirus is spreading across the planet at an alarming rate.
In times of great danger to humanity, it's important that we pull together as a society and ask: Who can we blame?
Woke, virtue-signalling millennials, of course.
Selfish Gen Y nihilists, encouraged by the Guardianista outrider set.
Only last week I caught wind of a dinner party attended by former colleagues of mine at the Guardian. I haven’t attended a social gathering for weeks and yet there they were, breaking bread together, cackling and hooting into each other’s faces without having had the decency to invite me. I dread to think of ooze of bodily fluids that must have sloshed around the room after a few too many bottles of Shiraz had been quaffed.
They’re not rushing to quarantine themselves; quite the opposite. Can we be more than seconds away from wails that not being allowed out to fawn at Greta Thunberg’s latest pity-party is a denial of human rights? Not that they ever bother to unglue themselves from their smartphones for long enough to leave their rooms and participate in society. The truth is that these super-carrying vermin are just relishing a lovely few weeks shirking, huddled on their next-gen mattresses, binging on their stockpiles of diversely casted Netflix sitcoms calling it “self-care”.
How about deigning to care about anyone but themselves, you ask? Don’t count on it.
They had their chance. If they hadn’t spent two years sabotaging the Will of the People, whinging about how Brexit would affect their Erasmus programmes, post-A-level holidays to Kavos and the future economic prospects of the country, we could have shut ourselves off completely by now – a hermetically sealed island with nothing to worry about. Several doctors I found of Facebook groups for Jacob Rees-Mogg supporters confirmed to me that this would have been the soundest epidemiological approach, but now it’s too late to stop the twisted revenge of the “Me, Me, Me” generation.
The damage the virus will do to our otherwise glorious economy is just part of the fun for this generation of pestilent Bernie Bros. The sad fact is, if you don’t have a mortgage you don’t really have a stake in society. Comrade Corbyn couldn’t end capitalism, so they’ve thrown their toys out of the pram. They’re the selfie-snapping Khmer Rouge and this is their Year Zero.
There’s nothing worse that catastrophising in situations like these, so to make sure I’m well prepared and not panicking, I headed to Waitrose to stock up on a few boxes of hand sanitiser. After picking up some bits and pieces – 30 cans of baked beans, 12 bags of rice, 14 tins of tuna, ten steaks, 20 assorted ready meals, 60 large packs of ultra-soft toilet roll, a kitchen roller that could be used as a rudimentary bludgeoning weapon – I turned to the hygiene isle. It was empty. Not a drop in the house. The thought of the gang of narcissistic millennials who presumably ransacked the place almost drove me to tears. I haven’t been so angry since I found out on Mumsnet that MMR jabs cause autism.
I looked around for the first shop assistant I could find to shout at, and spotted a gormless young character with a lip-piercing, his top button undone. “What is the meaning of this?” I cried, arms wide, gesturing to the empty shelf.
With an insouciance characteristic of privileged youth, the back-chat was instantaneous: “I’m sorry sir, we should get a delivery tomorrow,” he said. I crashed to my knees, upending my trolley and sending my Charlie Bingham’s fish pies scattering. By tomorrow, a horde of hee-hawing youths could have broken into my agreeable house and coughed directly into my face before disappearing into the night. When I said this to the shop assistant he just stared at me. Evidently I have far too much "white male privilege" for anyone to care about my safety!
At least the trip wasn’t in vain – it taught me a valuable lesson: That there’s only one way to combat this kind of attack. What we need is a bit of good old-fashioned stiff upper lip – not a terribly fashionable idea I must admit. Would the Greatest Generation be wetting themselves over a case of the sniffles? I highly doubt it. So I’ve decided: my holiday to Egypt will going ahead, thank you very much. And if any lily-livered local officials are concerned about the spread of disease, I’ll tell them what I told the elderly couple whom I beat to the last packet of toilet-paper in Waitrose: stop blubbering, pull your socks up, and wash your hands for as long as it takes to sing, “God Save the Queen”.
As for this generation of privileged snowflakes? They wouldn’t sing the national anthem if their pampered lives depended on it. I despair, I really do.