Well, well, well, where to begin? I’ve spent so much time locked down I don’t know whether I can string a sentence together anymore (and thanks to my fans at the back who said I never could). So please see this as a first attempt. Just ignore the years and years I’ve been writing for The Crack and judge me as you would judge a, er, neophyte. Or novice if you prefer. Personally, it’s been tough for everyone so it would have been a lovely fillip to look out the window and think that at least there’s some world leaders elucidating and pushing a post Covid reset for us to explore and enjoy in the months ahead. Unfortunately, the shadow of Trump is a long and malign one even in this country. Johnson and his nasty party may go on about Trollope or Dickens when forelock tuggers needing ideas for literary think-pieces come begging from one of the Sunday supplements, but they’ve been secretly studying the Trump playbook. Studying the art of lying, race hate, gay bashing and anti-feminism. They’ve worked out that they can talk with forked tongue and there will be little fact checking or criticism from their media pals or the electorate. We are floundering in the age of post truth when for obvious reasons truth is what we need more than ever to emerge from Covid into a less fraught future. Although how we can emerge from Covid when rates are rising again (as I write this) God only knows. Admittedly there were a few brief moments when the forces of reaction were Cold War Steved and seemed to go into hiding behind their herbaceous borders and Black Lives Matter protestors took to the streets and everyone (if The Guardian was to be believed) went wild swimming with baby foxes. Unfortunately, when we emerged from a Bristol harbour or some wild cold water, we all smelt Trump’s cofeve. It’s stink permeating every aspect of life in Brexitania. The continuing Windrush scandal, Grenfell scandal, NHS contracts scandal, the Covid deaths scandal etc all met with the smirk of people who don’t care for anything other than whether their pockets are secretly lined with seal fur and full of gold ducats. Letting us eat non-EU cake, when we all preferred a French fancy. But rather than being taken over by the spirit of 89 and all that revolutionary spirit too many of us seemed to prefer the UK’s current iterations of Louis and Marie Antionette, Thumbs up Boris and Carrie Posh Frock Johnson. Which I’m sure brings most of you to ask where the hell we go from here? Oh, hold on my crystal ball has just perked up…ooh, and what a turn up! Looks like we’ll be alright after all. Unfortunately, it’s more than my life’s worth to reveal our beautiful future. Guess you’ll have to tune in for next month’s issue to see if I reveal anything. Until then.