There’s a new infectious disease in town and its name isn’t coronavirus. It’s called ‘trying to have fun indoors with your family’.
The most common symptom of this dastardly disorder is a medical phenomenon known as a ‘hobby’. Having a hobby is sort of like having a job, but it costs money and you’re shit at it. Despite it’s economic toll on the household, the spike in crafty commotion has been brilliant for the useless-tat industry. DIY mouse taxidermy lessons have been streamed in abundance; ornamental glassblowers have been forced to limit bellows to one per household; grow-your-own-cress kits are now considered an essential item, reserved for our keyworkers. Across the board, hippy dippy pursuits are on the up. The same, unfortunately cannot be said for the institution of the brewery, an amenity left ravaged by old covid.
We spoke to one champion who is utilising his newfound arty abilities to single-handedly revive the experience of the public house.
“Well yeh basos I was getting quite fed up with all these virtual pub experiences. I’m gonna be honest with you, it’s just not cutting it. Where’s the sweet, sweet smell of urinal cake in the stagnant breeze? The symphony of chanting: ‘down it fresher!’… ‘get your tits out for the lads’ … ‘sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of love’. Where is the squelchy floor, the warm pint, the little bit of sick in the smoking area? It’s just not the same. God knows we’ve tried to recreate it. I’ve done twelve Zoom pub quizzes this morning alone (so if you ever want to know the cast of Dad’s Army in order of height, I’m your man) and I’ve had enough! I’ve had to make my own local from scratch.”
“I considered making a to-scale diorama of my local microbrewery, but I didn’t have enough paper to sculpt that much dickhead, so I settled for the pub down the road. I crocheted the floor to simulate the coarseness of the carpet, and I used hama beads for all the rowdy gammons, because they too turn into amorphous blobs when heat is applied. The biggest architectural feat was the racist who stands by the jukebox – he’s constructed out of 74 kilos of macraméd wool. I spent a lot of time on that geezer; I’ve even learnt ventriloquism so I can make him shout racial slurs without having to open my own mouth!”
What a scene. Take inspiration my friends, and, in these trying times, use your random detritus to fashion a boomer today.