THE COVID SEX ORDER, TRANS-PANTS AND THE VIRGIN'S REVENGE

Tomorrow belongs to you, sexy soy-boyz and whirly-girlz. Twenny-Twenny-One is the year of toadly sexless fun! Welcome to sexual distancing. The death of real sex-life and the sick celebration of anti-love; The New Sex Order.  Feeling jiggy? Get your bits out for the lads/ladylads/chaddychicks 'n fluidity-fans, okay, just get something up on the screen- before it's too late! What's that? You want real? Okay, mask up and chow down on the pick of your bubble! Have you signed up to Snapfuck yet?

Tricky, isn't it? Just 12 months ago there was a whole world of go-for-it sexual targets and even if you were mister or missus monogamy major, there was a certain comfort in the fallback position of unlimited opportunity...

...and then came the Corona-carnival, the cull of the carnal, the knuckleduster punch-in-the-nuts that stopped the spinning wheel of feel. Zip up your top, baby, cleavage is chaos, seduction means destruction. How very convenient, for a regime that insists -day after day, 24/7- that human life itself is the problem. Staying apart will keep us together - yes, Doublespeak is out and proud as if 1984 was written as an instruction manual for the hard of thinking. '

Apparently pornography -the written kind- is enjoying a revival. I suppose in a world where only inner-life is permitted, people will inevitably be driven to extremes. If you can't put anyone between your legs then between your ears will have to do. Of course it's difficult for the young, the products of 21st century state education, many of whom arrive at adulthood with less than 60 words in their vocabulary.  

Covidian Puritanism is nothing special, but this time there's more to it than long, frumpy dresses for all. Now it's a two-metre, rule-of-six, masked and distanced affair. If the result falls short of intercourse, meaning less pregnancy, less reproduction, then all the global patsies will dance and sing whoopee, for blessed Giaia and the Earth will weep tears of acid-free rain in relief. Because less humans is -so obviously- progress. Ask the United nations, or the World Health Organisation, or the World Economic Forum. Or the World Bank, if you like. What are you -some kind of nutcase who thinks humans existence is a good idea? Have you been to Basingstoke recently?

The priests used to tell me in the midst of life we are indeed in death, and they must have told a few other people too. It's amazing, the amount of death you hear about while your busy with life. I bet we'd all just be gorging ourselves on selfish living if the health saviours weren't shouting about death all day and night. Where would the killer pandemic be without the telly and the radio to remind us of the constant (invisible) deadly death-toll of the dead and dying out there in dead-man's ditch? So put a lid on it soldier, and keep Youporn on speed-dial. In the masturbation-nation of Coronaland the tools to build heaven are in your own hands -yes John, I mean that literally. 

If you're seeking enlighenment, courtesy of the freshly-printed American Governmental Doctrine, chapter one of the Keen New Orgasm Bible (KNOB) will show you the way. It's right there on page eighty-three in the Book of Pronouns, and I'm quoting "In the beginning there was darkness, but the Lord God identified as Light so that was that. Adam and Eve had a snog and a grope but you couldn't tell the difference with a microscope." 

In the godless, glorious, genderless future, nobody will get to take a chance on you- it's come one, come all, just don't come together! Thou shalt not reproduce - got it? We're all in it together, according to the Minister for Trans, except he won't tell us what "it" is or who "we" are. The message, however, is as clear as Speaker's Corner. Whatever you fancy, just say no. It's a wagging finger of faith, an ethic for the e-thick, a trick and a con- and you are the mark, the sucker, the loser. Listen mum - the kids are singing outside-

 "CorONalaw, TRANSlaw, BAG on the head, GLOVE on the paw!"  

It's all new and twitter-true, like a virtual fumble in the smartphone jungle. (Daddy, can I get pregnant on Instagram? Shut up Chantelle and take your hormone-blockers.) Darwin is vanishing over the Capitol hill with his arse on fire : evolution has been fact-checked (by 18 year-young Democratic interns) and the result is in - men and women do not exist. Forget your fuddy-duddy reality-fixation and answer a real question- who put the bi in biology? The kids are in charge and they're having it large -in the church of media-fication, where a vegan Pope weaves  threads of Hope through the comment section of the Guardian website. 

God bless the little 'uns -so hip and woke and dumb as dummy fence-posts, scampering headlong into the drooling jaws of their predetermined,  medicated oblivion. They were trained to hook up and they'll learn to lock down. Truth isn't true till they screen it for you. Sex isn't a drive, it's a distraction. A hand-held snack between films, a recreational itch, a fashion, not a fundamental.  Get (sort of ) laid and get with the kids! Who gives a fuck? (What is a fuck now?)

These are things we don't want to talk about, think about or debate. But they are real things, in your head, in mine, and pretending they are not is pointless.

"Health" is now the most loaded word in the English language. In the land of the Coronazis, health is a face-mask, a 6-foot gap between yourself and anybody else and an armful of dubious chemicals. 

In my world, health is cook-from-scratch food, fresh air and  physical pleasure -drawn from exercise, indulging my five senses, the sex of my choice, selective intoxication and an intellectual overview that keeps these activities in proportion. I am, you understand, a wrong-thinker.

And -gotta be honest- I screw it up, from time to time. I do too much of this and not enough of that; I get hooked into A and neglect C, but -and it's a BIG BUT -as sure as sunrise my intellect intervenes. That pesky ol' brain keeps kicking in to stop me descending into the pits like some low-blow dufus who can't join two dots. I'm not an utter moron. I know when I'm losing the plot and I wind my neck in and get real. 

But when the big people, the fancy-talking tv people, the mice-with-human-faces who think they RUN THE SHOW tell me my low-key harmless existence is no longer acceptable my blood boils and my hatred of the system sprouts great leathery wings. When somebody at the BBC decides (as they recently did) to tell the thirty-odd pensioners still watching that "your ideal sex-partner is yourself" says more about the queerlings that inhabit the BBC than anything else.Watch the skies, rat-people, because vengeance cometh when you least expect it.

Somebody in the ultra-top-secret panel known as the  Big Ugly Geek-Gang of Expert Rulemakers said last week that one day soon if we're very, very good we'll be allowed out to play and maybe go see a friend but no staying overnight at their house. I notice no SAGE individual is claiming authorship of that particularly salacious twist of the authoritarian knife. No staying overnight. This -and you know it -was dictated to some horse-faced secretary by the lisping, oily voice of the unfucked, the unshaggable, the eternal virgin that nobody wanted or ever will. 

And what he weely weely wants is revenge -on you, for having your filthy sex. Revenge on the whole cruel world of those who were not alone. The bitter, twisted groundling, despised by his own parents, the friendless, unfriendable creep whose ugliness beats like a booming drum in his hollow, empty heart. Which one was it, I wonder? My money's on Chris Whitty but you couldn't rule out many of them.

Keep your eyes open, for sooner or later these creatures are going to try and walk the streets in public.   

IAN ANDREW-PATRICK

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