Picture the scene. A virus, as gauche as a reality TV star, gatecrashes the polished soiree of UK-Africa trade negotiations. The Democratic Republic of Congo, a nation with more natural wealth than a City banker's bonus, slaps an Ebola ban on imports.
And the World Health Organisation, that eternal scold, looks at Britain and drawls: 'Get your docs out.' The British government, suddenly remembering its colonial bedside manner, scrambles for a thermometer while simultaneously patting its pockets for a trade deal. Oh, the delicious irony.
We've got a prime minister who treats sovereignty like a single malt, yet here we are, being summoned to the aid of a continent we spent centuries looting. The audacity. The sheer, unadulterated cheek of a disease to interfere with commerce.
It's like finding a slug in your salad. Absurd, repellent, and somehow entirely predictable. The WHO's request for 'British medical support' is a diplomatic nudge, a gentle reminder that the Empire's legacy isn't just cricket and Marmite.
It's also a history of syringes, quinine, and the occasional forced vaccination. Now, the question isn't whether we'll send aid. It's whether we'll do it with the grace of a gentleman or the panic of a man who's just realised he's left the gas on.
My money is on the latter. The trade corridor, that mythical beast of post-Brexit boosterism, now faces a checkpoint that isn't just about tariffs. It's about survival.
And the immortal truth remains: in the face of Ebola, your balance of trade is nothing more than a footnote in a medical journal.
