IT was the quite good English playwright William Shakespeare who wrote of “Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care”.

Apart from misspelling “sleeve”, no one knew what he was on about with his “ravell’d”. Unravelled, yes. That’s a word folk say. But ravelled? There was a Maurice Ravel, a French composer, but he lived long after Shakespeare, and his name was pronounced Rav-ELL, stress on the second syllable.

Shakespeare’s “ravel” is pronounced the same way as “Revel”, the popular chocolate-coated confectionary with assorted centres, where the stress is on the first syllable.

Shakespeare clearly loved the sweets, as he laments at one point: “Our Revels now are ended.” But he was also clearly fond of sleep as he goes on about it quite a bit in his sitcoms. “To sleep,” quoth he, “perchance to dream. Aye, there’s the rub.” Rub? What rub? Vick’s?

The man was clearly a mooncalf but I agree with him about the centrality of sleep in human life. Alas, as the public prints reported this week, the coronavirus has been wrecking it for many people.

That’s a tragic problem which I will try to address here. Indeed, it is my earnest hope that, before the end of this article, I will have left many of you asleep.

In a survey by Ipsos Mori, 63 per cent of peeps said their sleeps had become worse during the lockdown. That’s bad news, as experts say lack of asleep affects your wotsname. It also blooters your mood, concentration and immune system. And your memory. Did I say that already?

Insomnia: it’s a thundering nuisance. So, what can be done about it? Some citizens misunderstand the expression “sleep tight” and gargle vats of grog before staggering to Slumberland. But, while drink gets you off to sleep, it wakes you in the middle of the night with a thumping heid and twinges of regret about your tweet agreeing with David Icke.

Once awake, you can never get back off again as you fret about money, work and whether the baby Jesus really was God. Techniques such as the 4:2:4 method – breathe in through your beak for a count of four; hold for two; out for four – are supposed to help. They do not.

Nothing does. The whole thing is capricious. One day, you walk by the sea and sleep like a log all night. Next day, you walk by the sea and don’t get a wink. One night, you soak your heid in lavender oil and sleep like a baby. Next night, you find your heid is stuck to the pillow and you can’t breathe.

Establish a routine? Makes no difference. Make your bedroom a haven? Hopeless. Have a bath beforehand? Works one night, not the next.

Of late, I’ve found that changing my sleeping position, so that my teddy bear is in my right hand rather than my left, has helped. But I know it won’t last.

Jehovah the Merciless has made life like this. Every time you think things are getting better they get worse. Whenever you feel you’ve at last found your ideal home, He reveals a noisy neighbour, rising damp or a planning application for a nuclear abattoir next door. Never gives you a break.

It’s the same with sleep, though here he gives you a break you don’t want. That said, new evidence suggests we’re meant to sleep in two periods. In medieval times, during the break, people would indulge in salacious awfulness.

However, as that’s banned under the coronavirus sexual distancing rules, you should better use the time to read or write that novel; listen properly to music; paint your Airfix kit.

Don’t curse the hiatus. Make the most of it. Or at least make a cup of tea which, as Shakespeare wishes he’d said, “makes right your heid, unravels your sleeves, and gives your soul a good rub”.

Bier here

I WILL be quite candid with you here and confess I’m ambivalent about the idea of turning British pubs into German-style bierkellers as a way of getting round the coronavirus restrictions.

Better than nothing, I suppose, and if it’s all there is, I’ll take it. But, still, I fancy the long, open benches are too communal for me and perhaps more suited to the tribal nature of the Teuton.

Once, in Holland, I walked into a bierkeller type of set-up and found the entire clientele – well over a hundred – swaying together and singing The Birdie Song. Not one person demurred. I thought I was going to faint.

There are other considerations. One punter told science journal The Daily Star: “I’ve got a horrible image of pub landlord Al Murray wearing lederhosen.”

On the other hand, if they’re serving two-pint steins, I’ll happily sing Remember You’re A Womble along with everybody else. Prost, folks!

FIVE THINGS WE LEARNED THIS WEEK

TWICE as many people are talking to their neighbours compared to pre-virus times, according to a survey for community project The Big Lunch. Conversation openers are thought to include “Who are you?” and “My car’s far better than yours”.

THE Westminster Parliament has signed a £3 million contract for meat, poultry and game to be supplied for the next four years. Critics have questioned the expenditure as the place is already full of ham actors, silly burgers and folk telling porkies.

PEOPLE who “bulls**t” their way through life are more evolved than decent citizens, say Canadian researchers at the University of Waterloo. However, they’re also more likely to be taken in by “bulls**t” themselves: biter bit by bulls**t.

KARAOKE is to resume in Japan after easing of their lockdown. The unique form of aural torture is hugely popular in the country, which has 100,000 karaoke “boxes” and where there is a deeply ingrained culture of shamelessness.

THE BBC is to give Beeb, its answer to Amazon’s Alexa, a northern English, male voice. The corporation said the move highlighted its commitment to “diversity”, with a female voice rejected because the role is “subservient” and so more suited to men.