In what can only be described as a spectacularly ill-timed barbecue, a fresh outbreak of Ebola in the Democratic Republic of Congo has been met with a novel containment strategy: set fire to the treatment tents. Yes, gentle reader, in a move that would make a particularly confused arsonist proud, unidentified miscreants have torched the very structures meant to house the afflicted, scattering medics like frightened pigeons and sending the virus into the neighbourhood for a jolly good wander.
But fear not, for from the grey, gin-soaked shores of this sceptred isle, British scientists are assembling. They are striding forth, lab coats billowing, to lead the global response. Because when the world is on fire, who else but the English, with our stiff upper lips and fondness for queueing, to bring order to chaos? The Foreign Office has announced, with all the solemnity of a man announcing his own funeral, that a team of experts from Porton Down and the London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine will be dispatched forthwith. They will bring with them the full might of British ingenuity: thermal imaging drones, experimental vaccines, and, one assumes, a sturdy umbrella.
Let us pause to savour the irony. For decades, we have lectured the Congo on proper healthcare infrastructure. We have sent our finest, our coolest heads, our most sterilised needles. And yet, the locals, in a fit of what can only be described as deeply misguided self-expression, have decided that the best way to fight a highly infectious haemorrhagic fever is to add arson to the mix. It is the public health equivalent of trying to put out a grease fire with a flamethrower. One can almost hear the collective sigh of Her Majesty’s scientists as they pack their emergency rations and industrial-strength hand sanitiser.
What, one wonders, is the thought process here? "Doctor, these white devils have brought a plague upon us! Let us burn their tents!" Yes, because the tents are the real problem. Not the invisible entity that liquefies your internal organs. No, the fabric structure must go. This is the same logic that leads to blaming the kettle for a burned finger. But we must not judge too harshly. After all, this is a continent where, just last year, a man cured his malaria by drinking bleach. Innovation knows no bounds.
The British team, led by a woman who is probably called Dr. Penelope Weatherby-Smythe, will no doubt arrive, take one look at the smouldering remains, and mutter something about the weather. They will then proceed to set up a new, fireproof tent system, while politely asking the local populace to please, for the love of God, stop setting the medical facilities on fire. It is a diplomatic tightrope walked with the same grace as a drunk man on a unicycle.
Meanwhile, the World Health Organisation is issuing statements that read like a desperate plea from a hostage. "We urge all parties to respect the sanctity of medical facilities." Translation: "Please don't burn down the thing that keeps you from oozing from every orifice." But do they listen? Of course not. They are too busy fashioning torches from old tyres and chanting slogans about Western imperialism.
And so, British science rides again, on a pale horse of ethical guidelines and peer-reviewed research. They will save the day, no doubt, because that is what we do. We invent, we cure, and we tut disapprovingly at the chaos. But let us not pretend this is anything other than a farce. A grand, cosmic joke where the punchline is a virus that makes you bleed from your eyes, set to a soundtrack of crackling canvas and panicked screams.
In the end, the tents will be rebuilt, the fire will be extinguished, and the British scientists will return home to a hero's welcome and a cold G&T. And the Congo will be left, once again, to wonder why the world's attention only arrives in a hazmat suit.
So raise a glass to our brave researchers, off to do battle with both nature and human stupidity. May their lab coats be ever flame-retardant, and may the gin be plentiful upon their return. For this is the world we inhabit: a place where the most rational response to a viral outbreak is to reach for the matches. Cheers.
