Two bottles to help eradicate cabin fever

The virus is in retreat, the lock-down is crumbling, the sherbet dispensaries will shortly reopen and there is a second spike of summer. Every prospect pleases, and only demonstrating man is vile. In London, we have been subjected to the most ridiculous public protests since the Gordon riots or the agitation in favour of Queen Caroline. During the latter follies, Wellington, riding back to Stratfield Saye, found his way blocked by a crowd of yokels who declared that they would not let him pass until he had toasted the Queen. ‘Very well, sirs, if you will have it so, God bless Queen Caroline and may all your wives be like her.’ He then spurred away, leaving open mouths in his wake.

In recent weeks, it has been less about open mouths, more a matter of empty minds. The best moment in recent days, if you delight in absurdity, came with the complaints about ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’. Although it pains me to say so, ‘Swing Low’ is far more tuneful than the ghastly Scottish anthem. ‘Flower of Scotland’ sounds like a cow whose udders are overflowing, mooing for the milkmaid to bring relief. To understand the degeneration of taste, compare and contrast with ‘Flooers o’ the Forest’, which will bring mist to the steeliest Scottish eye. But I have never been able to understand why English rugby crowds adopted a moving and plangent negro spiritual. According to some interpretations, it was written to cheer on the efforts of the Northerners who were trying to smuggle escaped slaves to freedom. To me, similar to ‘All God’s Chillun Got Wings’, it is about sadness and stoicism; oppressed people clinging to their human dignity while taking comfort in the thought of a better world where the ‘Lamb… shall lead them unto fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes’.