In a move that has sent a ripple of concern through the corridors of Whitehall, France has confirmed its first case of the Ebola virus, prompting UK health authorities to mobilise their border protocols with the alacrity of a startled warthog. The patient, a dapper gentleman who had the audacity to return from Guinea with a souvenir far more unwelcome than a beret or a baguette, is now languishing in a military hospital in Paris, where the medical staff are no doubt regretting their decision to wear their best scrubs.
Enter stage left: the UK Health Security Agency, that august body of clipboard-wielding experts who have dusted off their pandemic playbook and are now feverishly implementing ‘enhanced surveillance’ at ports of entry. This means, my dear reader, that any traveller looking even remotely feverish or sporting a suspicious twitch will be met with a stern gaze and a thermometer. The protocols, as detailed by the Department of Health, include tracing contacts as if they were the last surviving members of a dying breed, and preparing quarantine facilities that are no doubt stocked with tinned beans and episodes of ‘The Crown’.
But let us not be too hasty in our praise. The government’s response, while commendable, has a whiff of the performative about it. One can almost hear the press release being drafted: “The UK remains vigilant, robust, and utterly terrified of any microbe that dares breach its borders.” The irony, of course, is that the same government that slashed public health budgets is now scrambling to look like they have a plan. It is a bit like a fire brigade turning up to a blaze with a garden hose and a prayer.
Meanwhile, the general public, that stoic breed of tea-drinkers, have reacted with their characteristic phlegm. A quick survey of the nation’s pulse reveals a collective shrug, punctuated by the occasional inquiry about whether this will affect the price of avocados. The media, never ones to let a crisis go unworshipped, have wheeled out the usual suspects: the earnest journalist at the airport, the virologist with a face like a wet weekend, and the retired colonel who insists that if we had just kept the Empire, this would never have happened.
And what of the honourable gentlemen in charge of border control? They have been issued with new, stringent guidelines: “If a passenger looks peaky, do not offer them a cup of tea. Instead, contact Public Health England immediately.” The instructions go on to recommend that border force officers maintain a “polite but firm” demeanour, which is British for “We are scared witless but we will not show it.”
In conclusion, dear reader, the Ebola virus has made its unwelcome debut on the continent, and the UK is girding its loins with the kind of bureaucratic vigour that only a nation with a national health service can muster. Whether this will be a full-blown crisis or just another false alarm remains to be seen. But one thing is certain: somewhere in a village hall, a committee is forming to decide the best way to panic about it. God save the NHS, and pass the paracetamol.
