SICK MAN OF EUROPE?

Boris Johnson (himself fighting the virus in isolation, a war we hope he wins speedily) and his cabinet are not having a 'good war' more broadly against Covid-19 (annoyingly called Covid plain and simple by some newspapers). The daily briefings - usually around 5 pm each afternoon, and featuring two or three podium speakers, a government minister in the middle, and two scientists or medical experts flanking them - have become a figure of mockery in their farcical Sisyphean repetition. The problem is the collision between rhetoric and reality that, from the Trump presidential campaign onwards has been a hallmark of the post-2015 age - what's called fake news, or misinformation. It is easy to lie as a politician, but not when the world can check, and the stakes are literally about lives and deaths.

Bluntly, the UK government has been badly-advised by some advisors, who, in documents seen by the media, as recently as end of February were dismissing Covid-19 risks to the UK as 'moderate' only. Indeed, the entire approach, from herd immunity, to stopping testing of the community, or not applying for the European ventilators scheme, has been typified by mandarin arrogance.

At times the daily briefings sound like Benedict Cumberbatch in 1917 - dismissive and upper-crust. The PM apparently has to 'balance the needs of the NHS and the economy' - trying to protect business interests, while maybe risking some 'ordinary' lives; though admittedly, every choice to focus scarce resources always bears such ethical dangers, if not always so immediately.

The State grinds on. The NHS and its army-aided Nightingale mega-hospital building is impressive, and the bare-faced sacrifice of doctors, nurses, and other care workers heart-breaking - they are the 'Tommies' of this war, going over the top at the whistle of some who don't give a toss about their safety. If the lives of the NHS staff was paramount, they'd be properly equipped, to keep their faces covered, and they'd be properly tested. Instead, factories in the UK that could be asked to make PPE or testing materials, are left idle. The Francis Crick labs, incredibly, seem only NOW to have come onboard.

And, while the average common Brit is banging pans for the NHS, or decently and bravely selling milk, eggs and bread to terrified shoppers, or walking once a day, a small minority are spitting at cops, beating their locked-down spouses, or driving off to Wales for a holiday, while millionaire footballers, earning 300k a week are refusing to take pay-cuts; proving that at least 10% of humanity is vile.

Why are ministers and Royals recently infected out and about now, glad-handing, as if the WHO regulations don't mean diddly-squat in Blighty?

CLIVE WILMER'S THOM GUNN SELECTED POEMS IS A MUST-READ

THAT HANDSOME MAN A PERSONAL BRIEF REVIEW BY TODD SWIFT I could lie and claim Larkin, Yeats , or Dylan Thomas most excited me as a young poet, or even Pound or FT Prince - but the truth be told, it was Thom Gunn I first and most loved when I was young. Precisely, I fell in love with his first two collections, written under a formalist, Elizabethan ( Fulke Greville mainly), Yvor Winters triad of influences - uniquely fused with an interest in homerotica, pop culture ( Brando, Elvis , motorcycles). His best poem 'On The Move' is oddly presented here without the quote that began it usually - Man, you gotta go - which I loved. Gunn was - and remains - so thrilling, to me at least, because so odd. His elegance, poise, and intelligence is all about display, about surface - but the surface of a panther, who ripples with strength beneath the skin. With Gunn, you dressed to have sex. Or so I thought. Because I was queer (I maintain the right to lay claim to that

IQ AND THE POETS - ARE YOU SMART?

When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart? A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional. Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were. For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ? Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets. But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ? How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular. John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se. What do I mean by smart?

"I have crossed oceans of time to find you..."

In terms of great films about, and of, love, we have Vertigo, In The Mood for Love , and Casablanca , Doctor Zhivago , An Officer and a Gentleman , at the apex; as well as odder, more troubling versions, such as Sophie's Choice and Silence of the Lambs . I think my favourite remains Bram Stoker's Dracula , with the great immortal line "I have crossed oceans of time to find you...".

E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

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