Now the politicians are arguing about Covid passports. Boris is as yet undecided about whether or not those of us who have had the required vaccinations or levels of antibodies through immunity need to carry around a certificate to prove this when attending indoor stadia for concerts and festivals. Other MPs are whining that it’s discriminatory, but I expect the ones who will shout the loudest are those who have steadfastly refused to be vaccinated.
However, I expect help will soon be on hand for the non-vaccinated, as I’m not sure whether Boris has taken human nature into consideration. Somewhere out there, an army of dodgy graphic designers are already seeing pound signs before their eyes. If Boris’s idea comes to fruition they will be on the lookout for the first Covid certificate that comes their way. Before you can say Coronavirus, there will be a template on their computers for what might eventually become thousands of fake certificates which will flood underground markets and make the aforesaid dodgy designers very rich. Boris might start to wonder why everybody has a certificate, even though some of the population turned down his kind offer to be vaccinated.
Hey ho, if something is able to be forged, then it will be. When we lived in South West London back in 1984, I’ll never forget the day when I looked out into our back garden and it appeared to be raining pound notes. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and rushed out and picked up every single one. There was over £500 there – money from heaven. Somebody watching over us must have realised our perilously impecunious state and decided enough was enough. I plonked Leon in his pushchair and trundled down Garrett Lane to the market and bought him some new clothes, and a big joint of beef for our Sunday dinner. I decided to give the remainder to Sam to pay off some bills. I had not been so happy for ages. When Sam came home from work he peered closely at each note (which I had not done) and announced that they all had the same serial numbers!
Whoops… anyway, we enjoyed a lovely roast dinner that weekend, with enough left over for a couple of days. We decided not to pay the notes into our bank account and instead used the rest for Monopoly money, as I was now too afraid to spend any more at the market. These days of course it’s not so easy to forge bank notes. All I can say is that Boris had better make his certificates forge-proof, otherwise somebody somewhere will soon produce uncanny likenesses.