From the sun-scorched beaches of Macquarie Island to the hallowed, gin-stained halls of British science, a new crisis is unfolding. It seems the avian influenza, bored of terrorising chickens and occasionally leaping into humans, has decided to go full marine mammal. Seal pups. Thousands of them. Dead. The culprit: H5N1. The reaction from Whitehall: a collective shrug and a polite request for more funding.
Our glorious leaders, ever vigilant, have dispatched a crack team of British scientists to the antipodes. Their mission: to 'research' the pandemic potential of this viral switcheroo. I envision them on the beach, tweed-clad and sipping lukewarm Pimm's, taking meticulous notes on which way the wind blows the stench of decay. 'Fascinating,' they murmur, as a pup breathes its last. 'Jolly good data set.'
Let us be clear. This is not merely a tragedy for the photogenic seals. This is a dry run for the apocalypse. If H5N1 has cracked the mammal code in a remote island paradise, what's stopping it from doing the same in a London tube carriage? The answer, presumably, is a combination of poor Wi-Fi and a general lack of interest from the public, who are too busy arguing about who ate the last Jaffa Cake.
But fear not. The British scientists are on it. They have protocols. They have clipboards. They have a frankly alarming amount of grant money. They will return with a 500-page report, which will be filed under 'Interesting but not urgent' and promptly forgotten. Meanwhile, the virus will continue its grim tour of the southern oceans, picking off the cute and the vulnerable, until the only seals left are the ones on Her Majesty's coat of arms.
And what of the government's pandemic containment strategy? It seems to consist of two phases: Phase 1, hope it goes away. Phase 2, panic and blame the previous administration. The British scientists in Australia are Phase 1.5: look busy while hoping very hard.
So here's to the seal pups. May they rest in peace. And here's to the British scientists. May they find something more productive to do than turn a wildlife massacre into a grant proposal. And if you're reading this from a government office, for God's sake, check the chicken sandwich you had for lunch. It might be the last thing you eat that isn't laced with existential dread.
