In a development so grotesquely absurd it could only be real, a band of armed lunatics has nabbed a child infected with Ebola in the Democratic Republic of Congo. The poor little mite, a walking petri dish of haemorrhagic nightmare fuel, was abducted from a treatment centre in Beni. Why? Because the universe has a sick sense of humour and apparently hasn't finished with humanity yet.
Let's get this straight: some goons in balaclavas thought, 'You know what would be a brilliant idea? Stealing a toddler who oozes a virus with a 50% mortality rate.' This is the kind of thinking you get when your entire moral compass is forged from blood diamonds and bad decisions. The abductors, described as 'armed men,' which in DRC shorthand means 'people who will definitely shoot you and possibly eat your liver,' vanished into the jungle with the boy. Meanwhile, the World Health Organisation is having a collective aneurysm, and Britannia's finest are presumably being briefed on how to safely handle a biohazardous hostage situation without dissolving in their own hazmat suits.
Enter UK special forces. Yes, the SAS, SBS, and whoever else has a fetish for camouflage and doing the impossible are reportedly on standby. Because nothing says 'global police' like sending blonde commandos into a Congolese rainforest to rescue a plague rat from a bunch of machete-wielding dimwits. The government, in its infinite wisdom, has not confirmed this, which means it's almost certainly true. One imagines the briefing: 'Right lads, we're looking for a child. He's infectious. Don't touch him. Or breathe near him. Or think about him too hard. Also, expect hostile locals who think we're the devil. Any questions? Good. Get your jabs and your prayers in order.'
This is not a crisis. This is a farce performed by actors who've forgotten their lines and are now just setting fire to the script. The world has become a caricature of itself. We have a child weaponised by disease, abducted by barbarians, and the solution is to dispatch the shock and awe brigade from a country that can't decide if it wants to be part of Europe or a tax haven. The sheer, unadulterated ridiculousness of it all makes me want to drown myself in the nearest bottle of gin. Which, coincidentally, is right here.
Let us pause and consider the logic: The kidnappers presumably want something. Ransom? Political leverage? A new pet? Because no one in their right mind steals an Ebola patient unless they're planning a very specific and unpleasant form of biological warfare. Or they're stupid. Stupidity is a powerful motivator. In fact, it might be the only thing that explains anything anymore. The child, whose name we are mercifully spared (because names humanise and we prefer our tragedies abstract), is now a bargaining chip soaked in haemorrhagic fever. The DRC government is probably tearing its hair out, but then again, they've got bigger problems like volcanoes and warlords and the occasional outbreak of sanity.
And what of the UK's role? We are the global gendarme, the policeman of last resort, the nation that sends its finest to die in far-off lands so that our sofa-bound politicians can look resolute. The special forces are on standby, which means they're probably in a hangar somewhere playing cards and trying not to think about how the mission requires them to extract a biological time bomb from a hostile jungle. The success rate? About as high as my liver function. But that's never stopped us before. We'll send in the Paras, they'll do something heroic, and we'll all have a lovely news cycle about British grit while ignoring the fact that the child's life was already forfeit the moment he was born in a country that makes Mad Max look like a utopia.
In the end, this is another chapter in the book of human stupidity, volume 3,462. We will wring our hands, send in the troops, and pretend we are doing something meaningful. Meanwhile, the virus doesn't care. The jungle doesn't care. And the child, if he survives, will grow up with a story that would make you weep or laugh, depending on your proximity to a bottle. I'm choosing to laugh. It's either that or go mad. And I've already got a reservation there.
So here's to the special forces, the unsung heroes who will inevitably have to negotiate with a bunch of viral vectors. And here's to the child, who never asked for any of this. And here's to the gin. Because without it, I'd have to take the news seriously. And we can't have that, can we?
