Your souvenir Victory Over Coronavirus article

REJOICE! Plucky Britain has defeated coronavirus and our victory celebrations may begin. Print out and frame this historic article as a souvenir of our second-finest hour.

All hail Alexander the great!

Boris Johnson’s superb leadership, matchless intellect and vast vocabulary has saved our nation at the cost of only the third highest death toll in the world. He’s the new Churchill, but with a V2 rocket in his pants.

Start a petition for Victory Over Coronavirus Day

Hassle your MP, local council and the poor sods unlucky enough to follow you on social media about making 4th July ‘VOC Day’. Attention-seeking voids from Mark Francois to Gary Barlow will support it, so it might even happen.

Put up a random jumble of patriotic pictures

Make a deranged collage celebrating Britain including Blair, Thatcher, the Dambusters, the Earl of Sandwich, Jethro Tull, Steve Cram, a cup of tea, the Arnhem Landings and whatever other nonsense comes immediately to mind, like Michael Caine in Zulu.

Hold a strangely menacing street party

Get out the trestle tables and sausage rolls because we’re going to party like it’s 1977. Add Union Jack tablecloths and bunting for an unsettling British Nuremberg atmosphere. Suspend a large model Spitfire over the street, hovering like a bird of prey.

Mint your own commemorative coin

Get a regular 50p coin and glue a picture of a coronavirus being mauled by a lion on the other side to Her Majesty. This will become a priceless family heirloom, and considerably cheaper than the commemorative coins the Daily Mail will inevitably be flogging.

Have a coronavirus baby

Impregnate or get impregnated by on 4 July and name the baby accordingly. ‘Hope’, ‘Victory’ and ‘Triumph’ are perfect names to remember these historic times, though ‘Lockdown’ might work if your child ever becomes a grime rapper.

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Man with Glastonbury tickets hit by tremendous sense of relief

A MAN with tickets for this year’s Glastonbury has been brought to his knees by an incredible, overwhelming wave of relief.

Tom Booker of Manchester glanced at the calendar, realised he should have been setting off for the festival tomorrow and was staggered by the sheer joy of not having to.

He said: “If not for the pandemic, I’d be in a tent tomorrow night. And every night until next Tuesday. Surrounded by dickheads and caked in my own filth. And now I’m not.

“Who was on this year? Kendrick Lamar, I’d have had to watch that. And Taylor Swift, even though by Sunday night all I’d really want to be doing is sitting in my car, imagining I’m in traffic, leaving.

“God, the drugs I’d have to take. The surprising art-house cabaret I’d have had to stumble upon. The pleasure I’d have had to feign. All gone.

“Instead I get to stay at home, sit in the sun in my own garden, urinate in my own clean porcelain toilet, pour myself cold drinks from my own fridge and not have to watch sunrise from anywhere, least of all the healing field.

“Watch it on the telly? Bollocks I will.”

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