It sometimes feels like we’re going to be sorting through the emotional wreckage left by the pandemic for the rest of our natural lives. Ideally, of course, we would be doing this in some kind of therapeutic setting, where we can all consider exactly how living through month after month of existential terror – but for this to be experienced mainly through Netflix and boredom – might have done terrible things to the lot of us. In the political sphere, it’d be helpful, too, if we could take a long, dispassionate look at exactly what went wrong and work out how to make sure it never happens again.
But of course this is Britain, in 2023, so we aren’t doing any of that. Instead, we are doomed to root through our history and find it merely confirms everything we already thought. The first time as farce; second time also as farce.
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