We've got a cracker on our hands - so let's wash them.

I'm sure you've noticed, but there's been a bug going round these last few months. As there still appears to be a bit of mileage left in its coverage, I thought I'd tell you how similar it all seems to a dank Sunday afternoon one January when a collection of twenty-two Englishmen, Scots and a Welshman or two chased a piece of leather around for an hour and a half while the equivalent of half the population of Pontypridd tried disemboweling themselves with rusty spoons, so dismal was the spectacle playing out before their eyes.

Thirty-four years on and I can still remember Sunday, 5th January 1986 as if it were yesterday.  Thirteen thousand people turned up at Selhurst Park in South London to watch a Third Round FA Cup tie between Charlton Athletic and West Ham United. In the dying minutes of normal time, Tony Cottee prodded Frank McAvennie's goal-bound lob into the back of the net to put the Hammers through by the slimmest of margins. It was a wholly undeserved dramatic end to what had been the most eye-wateringly tedious ninety minutes of football I'd seen since I'd paid a tout over the odds to watch the truly epic snooze-fest of Arsenal drawing 1-1 with Aston Villa a few years before.

An unresolved rights dispute between the Football League and the BBC and ITV kept the game off the telly at the start of the season, so the London face-off was the first football to be seen on the small screen since August 1985. No doubt under strict instructions to talk the match up no matter what, John Motson's breathless commentary frothed the approximative kick-about in the South London mud to King Kong cappuccino-sized proportions ('What a cracker we've got on our hands, here'), the crowd noise was ramped up to 11 but no amount of gushing hyperbole could disguise the Emperor's new away strip: this was the biggest turkey anyone would be likely to find so soon after Christmas.

Yes, you've already got the parallel. I sometimes feel we're being treated to latter-day Motty in the way we are instructed to respond to Covid-19. Panic! Save lives! Keep safe! Applaud! Isolate! Gloom, doom and disaster! Yes, there have been excess deaths due to this virus; greater scientific minds than mine have already listed an array of reasons for this but the reaction enjoined by the media seems disproportionate in the face of reality, so I'll move on to what I feel is the far greater danger of this pandemic, one which may stay with us far longer than the result of some Chinese market stallholder French-kissing a bat or whatever it was that set this all off.

Within a short space of time, our national response as a so-called global community was not to try to find a common solution to this unknown disease but to isolate ourselves. In the name of containing the spread we needed to sever contact with our neighbours and close our borders. That done, we were then required to distance ourselves from our real neighbours: those who live next door or down the road aswell as aged relatives, who fell fairly and squarely into the 'vulnerable' category. Just to make sure we were doing this properly we had to stay within our four walls - the dramatically-termed 'lockdown' - and forbidden to leave our premises for anything other than basic existential essentials. All well and good for those sitting in houses with gardens or generously-proportioned flats with terraces or the like but a real misery for anyone else.

Three months on and what have we got? Entire continents cautiously poking their noses out of their warrens as the virus predictably recedes, squinting at the light we've forgotten existed after weeks of wall-to-wall Netflix and a profound mistrust of our fellow humans. We've all been told to keep away from them, you see, as they could infect us and make us ill. Just to be on the safe side, we need to disinfect ourselves before we go near them and must always leave a few feet between us in case they kill us with a handshake. The obligation or desire to speak to them is also heavily reduced thanks to that ineffective mask we have to wear which, if combined with sunglasses on a bright day, makes us all look like pantomime bank robbers.

New, international social distancing norms seem to vary between one and two metres. I read somewhere that the UK's Social Distancing Czar (not his real job title) prescribed two metres as he felt the public couldn't be trusted to stick to one. Er, how often in your lives have you felt the need to get any closer than one metre to strangers in a queue? Walk alongside a friend or a member of your family and you'll probably find yourself abiding by that rule without giving it a second thought. The rule, however, creates emotional distance where you seek proximity. Rush hour commuting aside, people generally squash up together because they want to: in a pub, a concert or, with a little more distance, a concert hall or theatre. Now we've ascertained that the under-65s are at practically no risk whatsoever - the group most likely to rub shoulders and more in the Tube or at rock concerts - and that children neither suffer from this ailment nor transmit it, why are we all still required to pursue this theatre which has been systematically debunked by many experts who, strangely, never seem to get invited to talk about their theories on mainstream media?

Ah yes, theatre. Air France's and Ryanair's recent response to the French government's directive that they remove the central seat from the statutory row of three in order to respect social distancing directives was to say how ridiculous and financially suicidal this would be. OK, said the French government, you just need to ensure all the passengers wear masks. Sitting right next to someone wearing a mask for an hour or more is, therefore, entirely in sync with social distancing directives. So why, then, are theatres and cinemas still closed? How is an opera house or a multiplex more dangerous than an airborne sardine tin? Why this discrimination against those seeking a common artistic experience? Even if opera audiences are likely to be on average older and thus more 'vulnerable' than other theatre-goers, I'll bet my bottom dollar they'd prefer to take the infinitesimally small risk of contracting CV-19 (from which they'd almost certainly recover, anyway) and spending a night in the company of Verdi or Wagner than staying at home in glorious isolation yet again. If they tell us the reasoning is financial, our elected representatives are even more out of touch than we thought.

While our mainstream media bubble continues its tin-eared exhortation that we've got a cracker on our hands, we must resist the temptation to apply those rusty spoons to our tummies and get on with the serious business of re-engaging our critical faculties and natural desire for human interaction. If not, our theatres and cinemas will stay closed and football matches played in front of empty terraces. Still, in the case of one match I can think of, that might have been a blessing…

Ça tombe comme à Gravelotte…

If you're not French, you're unlikely to have come across that saying. In fact, I get the impression that even those under a certain age will find it unfamiliar. It's used to describe a downpour, but its origin is far more tragic.

Gravelotte, about 11 miles west of Metz, was the scene of some extremely bloody battles in August 1870 during the Franco-Prussian War. Seventy-five thousand died in three days of fighting. Gravelotte also hosts a museum to the memory of this episode of history, its antecedents and life in the occupied regions of Alsace and Lorraine from 1871 till 1918 and the 1940 - 1945. Opened in 2014 after its German-built predecessor had been closed in the late 1990's, it's an excellent structure which will tell you all you need to know and more in its thoughtfully-planned exhibition rooms. With an entire section devoted to the tensions and ambitions which led to France declaring war on Prussia in July 1870, it's a comprehensive lesson in a significant thread of nineteenth century European history.

If you do go, have lunch in the nearby restaurant and bar, Le Quinze. It's just a minute's walk away, by the roundabout.

The museum from the German War Cemetery, opposite.

Aformentioned cemetery with memorial shrine.

A cannon. How would you cope without me?

Your lunch awaits…

Latchave and the Guerilla Girls

No, I didn't know what it meant, either. It's Lorrain dialect for To Leave, Go. That would have been unusual enough in itself had I not come across this expression in Metz, a city in Lorraine. Latchave is the name of an art installation by Thomas Clémente in the Eglise des Trinitaires, just around the corner from the extraordinary cathedral. I came across it by chance after leaving an appalling exhibition by the Guerilla Girls, devoted to thirty-odd years of moaning about the underrepresentation of female (and non-white) artists in major galleries, notably those in Europe and, principally, the US. I'm probably missing something here, but if you do then get the chance to have a considerable space for three months, why not fill it with art by women, white and non-white alike, instead of covering every available space with posters denouncing the lack of opportunities this group has had to show its wares since Eve bit into that Pink Lady?

Anyhow, after bidding farewell to the nice girl with the short-back-and-sides at the entrance, I stumbled across a former baroque church-turned exhibition space almost opposite. Free admission, so why not have a look? There was mysterious, deep electronic music playing so I guessed there was probably an explanation leaflet somewhere. Yes, there was. However good the artwork was going to be, nothing could have prepared me for the well-intended but dreadfully pretentious blurb a certain Ms Boulc'h (pronounced: Bullsh) had written for the visitors. Here's a sample: A call to insubmission against fatality, the exhibition leads us to understand that emancipation could reside in our ability to perceive our life as fiction. The anonymous protagonist who appears to consider himself invincible is Achilles, fighting against everyday events; his heel (the centre of his vulnerability) incarnated by the imposed social order. It's not the worst part, I'm afraid; the next paragraph scuttles off up its own large intestine without even touching the sides, but I'll spare you the prose. I hope the writer never marries anyone called 'Itt'.

The artwork itself is highly accomplished. Thomas Clémente is a fine draughtsman and expresses much with simple images. I was particularly impressed with the video, The Tomb. I'm not sure I experienced what the artist was intending, but the notion of juxtaposing the image of a tomb which slowly appeared and disappeared ion a forest setting made perfect sense to me.

So if you're in or around Metz at the moment, pop in to the Eglise des Trinitaires and have a look. The Guerilla Girls opposite pack up their spotlit grumble tomorrow, so you've missed that one, I'm afraid.

The annual cultural trip to Santiago de Chile.

I've now been here for just over half a week and haven't let the grass grow under my feet. The first high point of my stay was being upgraded by the hotel from a suite to the penthouse duplex because of necessary plumbing in the original flat. Nice start! There's even a roof terrace with a parasol which I've been able to use as it's really not cold here, despite it being winter, apparently.

As I've written before, cinema and theatre are cheap to attend here, so I don't spend much time at home in the evenings. I'll gradually add to this list as my stay progresses:

 Not a bad film, the Chilean critics being pretty kind to this sub-Hollywood love story which nevertheless adequately paints the broad brush strokes of that extraordinary settlement a few hundred miles south of Santiago as well as bravely implicating the collusion of the German government of the time in covering up for Paul Schäfer and some vile practices of Pinochet's henchmen in the basement.

Now this was a completely different kettle of fish. Tired of always being asked by his family when he's going to get married and settle down, a forty-something filmmaker decided to make a film about his situation. It sounds quite promising but the result was dreadfully boring and pretty pointless, to say the least. Oh well.

I've just got in from seeing this theatre piece. It was excellent, an interesting and highly amusing take on swingers and what could happen if it all goes wrong. If you're in Santiago, I really recommend you see it.

You have to see this film, it's a must. I only went as it was playing in my favourite little art house cinema near my luxury penthouse duplex, but I'm glad I did. Once again, very thought-provoking and highly amusing at the same time with a fairly unexpected twist in the tail.

Paolo Sorrentino's film, Youth, is worth watching. Interesting performances by Michael Caine as a retired composer/conductor and Harvey Keitel as a waning film director, on holiday in a sort of Swiss spa-cum-sanitorium, reflecting on life, observing youth etc. The girl on the poster is Romanian model Madalina Ghenea, who plays a freshly-crowned Miss Universe, spending a week at the establishment. It's really a bit part, she has hardly any screen time, the story concentrating on Michael Caine's gradual rapprochement with his family via a series of unrelated events as well as Harvey Keitel's attempts to make his career-defining magnum opus. It's a gentle, slow-moving film with the odd kitschy moment and worth a couple of hours of anyone's time.

Nice performance last night of this classic with an exclusively South American cast under the expert baton of Pedro-Pablo Prudencio. A couple of debatable casting elements, but otherwise worthy of this reputable stage.

Dios es un lujo - God is a luxury - has been running, on and off, at the Teatro del Puente here in Santiago for the last six years. It tells the story of three prostitutes, a trans and a drug addict lumped together in a police cell. They talk about their lives, their fears, their beliefs…it's extremely well done with no special effects - in fact, there's no scenery whatsoever, just lighting - but acting talent to burn. There are still a couple of performances to go, so if you're in Santiago, head over to the Parque Forestal and take it in. It's more than worth the CLP6000 (c.€8) ticket price. Runs an hour.

Just got back from this pleasant piece of burlesque comedy. Excellent performance from Magdalena Max-Neef as the successful psychiatrist and sexologist Luisa and wife of the somewhat 'busy' Andrès:

The camping up is a bit OTT, but the point is well-made in a still extremely conservative society. The Teatro San Ginés is the largest neighbourhood comedy theatre I've been to here and the ticket price reflected that: more than double some of the others but still respectable at around €16. It's a larger operation all round.

Teatro Ictus always puts on good work and the diction is invariably excellent, so I get more for my money. Tonight was the dress rehearsal of Okupación, premiered in 2005 and revived now. It's a reflection on whether secondary schools should be privatised…

…or whether they should remain entirely publicly funded. It's a Mrs. Merton question of course, and I didn't get the impression the piece or the debate had been updated since it last played here. The central question - should pupils be trained to be marketable products or should schools continue to form rational and inquisitive human beings - is over-simplistic and didn't address the subject in sufficient depth, neglecting the more important issue of whether our schools should be more pragmatic in orientating pupils towards the existing job market; an important shade of grey which, sadly, made no appearance in this play. Still, a well-performed, entertaining way to spend ninety minutes.

El Biógrafo conveniently had a programme change the other day, bringing in La Chispa de la Vida for Se Dio Vuole. Released in 2011, the English title is As Luck Would Have It and features Salma Hayek as the wife of a somewhat depressed, out-of-work former advertising whizzkid who tries reactivating old contacts to get his working life back on track. The rest of the cast, which includes José Mota and Juan Luis Galiardo, is excellent, though largely unknown in the English-speaking world, hence all the advertising centring on Salma Hayek, I suppose. It's a nicely done, albeit not terribly subtle commentary on contemporary society's obsession with celebrity. The plot lacks depth and the end predictable. Worth seeing, nevertheless.

Tonight, it's the premiere of Puccini's La Bohème at the Teatro Municipal. It's a nice production which makes no waves, is decently acted and well sung. It'll be a good evening.

So that's pretty much it from Santiago this year. In addition to those activities listed above, I've been to the National History Museum, The Violeta Parra Museum and The National Museum of Military History, before taking a trip out to Lonquén yesterday. Got back into yoga with ten early morning classes, sampled some excellent Chilean red wines and had a few excellent meals out, of which Bocanariz was probably the best. It's a great place to be. Don't just take my word for it…