Kingdom: Perfect For A Pandemic

First, for those of a certain age, not that Kingdom, the completely bonkers Lars Von Trier directed series set in a hospital in Copenhagen in which dishwashers discuss strange happenings from their location in the basement. 

No, this is the completely bonkers Korean costume drama set in the 16th century with scheming factions, invasion threats, goodies, baddies and .. zombies. 

Whilst being pursued by ravenous hordes of the undead might feel a touch less than comfort viewing, in so many other respects this has everything one might need for a bit of light allegory of a pandemic evening.

Without giving too much away, it's fairly clear from the outset that we are dealing with something of a leap from one species to another. This one doesn't involve bats and might look on the surface relatively benign with a little plant being the apparent culprit. Probably, its the combination of a harmless looking little plant and a corpse which makes it more troubling. Some things definitely shouldn't mix.

Then there's the deliberate efforts to conceal the true extent of the problem. Significant numbers of palace servants might have gone missing in uncertain but typically bloody circumstances but the official line is that the king is suffering from a bad case of smallpox. Really, there's never a case of smallpox which is less than bad but this one does seem to be particularly virulent. And hungry. Feeding a cold no doubt.

We also have evil councillors making stuff up to suit their prospects of power. There may not be press conferences (this being an absolute monarchy) but the bad guys are definitely manipulating the narrative, speculating on cures, blaming other people (who also happen to be in line of succession) for bad things and generally bigging up themselves and their henchmen.

Medics are of course in the front line doing their sterling best but being let down by the availability of equipment. And actually by the availability of food. Starving populations weakened by years of war induced austerity are always likely to succumb to a tasty offering even if it looks too good to be true and might not be conducive to robust health in the long term. 

There are also suggestions that sunlight looks a good bet for respite. The hordes retreat to sleep during the day so perhaps there's hope that the contagion will be slowed down and indeed seen off. Astoundingly, that turns out to be a little simplistic too. This is indeed worse than the flu. 

Quackery and price gouging is quick to step in. Need something to stop a ravening member of the undead. Knock up a short script of characters on a scrap of paper. Sell it for an extortionate price. Wave it around a bit. In practice, of course, its about as useful a suggesting that a treatment for a completely different illness might do the trick.

Religion tends to be a bit of a hindrance too. Decapitating or burning the undead  represents an unnecessary level of social distancing quite at odds with general ritual practice; keeping the infected corpse in a box is so much better an idea. 

Then there are the decisions about whether this is a case of every man for themselves grabbing the loo roll and the sanitiser or whether collective endeavour with people who actually know about stuff concentrating on the stuff they know about might be a better option for saving the population? Well, blow me down if isn't the latter.

And then there's the calculus about whether there is a choice about how many to save. Perhaps for the future of the society its better to think about how you might be able to save more people rather than seeing a utilitarian trade off with the great unwashed being left to fend for themselves. It also allows for some inventive approaches to vanquishing substantial numbers of the rushing undead using only mechanisms available in the mid-16th century. Fire and water loom large for some pleasingly specific (if unstated) historically accurate symbolism.

The one thing that isn't needed is a test to see if someone has been infected.

With this particular ailment, that tends to be clear.

And it doesn't take a week to show.

I Really Would Like You Not To Say 'I Need You To ...'

Some while ago, 'Two Brains' David Willets, in something of a tight corner, trawled up the antique use of the term 'want' to suggest that the phrase 'he wants our advice' didn't as mere One Brain types might have imagined convey a direct request to be told what we thought. Instead, as only truly superior types would appreciate, the interlocutor was actually in 'want of' and was merely requesting assistance in completing a particularly tricky thought process. They were, so to speak, in need of it.

Since those bracingly etymological days, now when people actually do want you to do something they say that they are in need of it.  

True professionals who have been on the training course say: 'I need you to ...' at the drop of a hat. Step out of the car; listen to me; sit down; stand up; finish the job; even drop the gun. 

It is most obviously a staple of the police procedural. A micro going on macro aggression of over tooled politeness which comes with barely concealed threat of consequence should one aver that there is in fact no need for the suggested action. 

Even worse it is often conveyed in what might be termed the 'reasonable voice', carefully modulated so that the aggressor is not actually viewed as being aggressive. 

Some might suggest that it represents a more straightforward way of managing a conversation where there is a formal relationship between the parties. 

In fact to use the phrase is an act of verbal coercion. It is to put a veneer on contempt. 

It is in short dehumanising. 

How I yearn for Two Brains and a world in which one might rather fabulously say, perhaps in tricorn and a frock coat, I am in want, sir, of you stepping aside.

So, the only time I am going to use that phrase is to address it directly and in terms of a world in which I think it would feel entirely at home and in which tricorns and frock coats are sadly not de rigueur. 

I need you to go to Room 101.