What Your June 21st Plans Say About You

The 21st of June. Cometh the day, cometh the hour, cometh the pints. This is the date on which COVID restrictions (supposedly) lift in the UK and we are (supposedly) free to wander around with abandon.

While it’s entirely possible that this date ends up changing – this is, after all, the British government, whose regard for science and the safety of the population is: not high! – the 21st of June is still far enough away that it’s not particularly tangible, and therefore it feels relatively safe to at least fantasise about what our plans for Britain: The Grand Reopening might be.

Whether you’re after a romantic getaway or a night that ends with you being blissfully sick in a drain, here’s what your hopes for the 21st of June say about you.

Considering you plan to spend your first moments of freedom inhaling Prosecco and some sort of horrendous burger made out of American pancakes and black pudding, I can only assume that you are a laugh – but maybe also someone who is quite into organised fun.

You were the ringleader of many a Zoom quiz in the early stages of the pandemic (“Can everyone make sure they’ve got a pen and paper to hand, as well as some clay or Blu Tack for the sculpture round please? X”), and when summer came you bought a marquee and garden furniture so you could throw yourself a birthday party in the park closest to your house (you made everyone come in “festival wear” and it pissed down).

I would wager that you enjoy pink gin and have made someone cry over a board game at least once in your life.  

You and your dearly beloved have been a constant subject of bitterness from your single acquaintances. Together in lockdown, you did all the stuff a couple does in the first flushes of romance, pandemic-style: bought a puppy or kitten and pretended it was from a shelter, painted a whole wall of your flat canary yellow or dusky pink, posted exquisite little luncheons and baked sourdough on your stories every day, never failing to tag the other, despite them being across the room from you.

At least in the beginning, you were secretly thinking to yourselves, or regularly saying aloud to other people, “This pandemic business, it’s not so sad... in fact, I might be enjoying it, rather a lot!” What those people don’t know is that the bickering has intensified over the winter season, you can count the times you’ve had sex on one hand and this little weekend away is your best attempt at squashing the jealousy you feel at all the singles. The summer of love is their time! This historical once-in-a-lifetime sexual revolution will pass you by – how sickening! 

The nationwide tantric sex experiment of the past 12 months is over. You have spent the last year edging, edging, edging towards what will be the greatest shag of your life, if only because of the build-up. You did all the shite Zoom dates, the park dates, the sexts and the swearing off dating apps forever. Now, you’re casually keeping that dead text thread alive for the latest person on your sexual radar. As you feel them drift away on the other end of the phone, you drop a little message back in there, so they swoop back in like a horny homing pigeon. You are wilfully reading far more into the potential of the relationship than is necessary, because the date gets closer: June 21st, playtime, baby. 

Is that the best you can do? “Cans in the park” is all that’s been available to us for basically the past 12 months, barring the summer and the Substantial Meal era. If I never have “cans in the park” again in my life, it will be too soon. I want to sit on CHAIRS, having cans INSIDE, their contents poured into GLASSES. I want to accidentally drink a BEER belonging to my MATE without worrying that I might just have become a SUPERSPREADER. I will be inviting my friends over to sit in my extremely hot living room even at the height of summer, honestly, just out of principle. Cans in the park are cancelled for the next year at least.

Your few crumbs of self-worth have been delivered every few days of the last year in a parcel from Dr. Glossier, Nurse BEAUTY BAY or GP Shein. Just as you feel you can’t go on another day, tearfully logging onto your work email, the doorbell rings and you receive your injection of serotonin. You tear away at the cardboard, heart fluttering.

In this moment, you imagine a gorgeous You, a future You, who goes out around town, turning the heads of lads who can barely contain their desire to shag You! In the meantime, you’re an empowered, stunning woman who can make it through this pandemic. Five minutes later and you’re calculating whether the next parcel will be here tomorrow or the day after. Either way, as long as they keep coming, you’ll make it. 

You go on Twitter too much and have been fantasising for the entire pandemic about being lifted aloft on 20 people’s shoulders at once while performing “Rock DJ” from memory in the karaoke booth. 

Before the pandemic, your personality was “bands”. What really got you going was a chunky ass riff, a cold pint in a plastic cup and a filthy bassline. Non-music mates might call you a bit of a rocker.

Throughout 2020, you were grieving gigs, mourning each one with a misty-eyed nostalgia. You started listening to live albums instead of studio ones, and kept reading all those articles about the universal power and pleasure of live music. You kept tabs on which festivals had been officially cancelled, still refusing to believe – despite literally all common sense, factual evidence and industry comment – that they wouldn’t go ahead. Soon, you can be back in the pit, where you belong. 

Really, you are probably the wisest of the bunch, because unlike the rest of your pals on this list, you’re not leaving anything up to this government and their track record. You remember Christmas, 2020, and you won’t be burned again by the pathetic little hope of “something nice” happening, because we live in hell now. We could probably all learn from you, to be honest. 

@hannahrosewens / @hiyalauren