In a development that has sent shockwaves through the medical establishment and caused a minor spike in sales of tonic water, Britain’s finest minds have announced a breakthrough in the fight against Ebola. The vaccine, developed by a crack team of researchers who apparently survive on a diet of Pot Noodles and existential dread, is set to begin human trials within months. This, they claim, will save thousands of lives. Which is lovely. But let us not forget that this is the same country that gave the world the Dyson fan, the bendy straw, and the inexplicable popularity of James Corden.
The announcement, made with the solemn gravitas of a man announcing he’s run out of milk, comes from the Porton Down laboratories in Wiltshire. These are the same chaps who brought us anthrax vaccines and chemical weapons testing, so one can only assume the Ebola cure was discovered while they were cleaning out the back of a cupboard. “We were looking for the Tupperware lids,” a source told me, “and there it was: a vial marked ‘Ebola Vaccine – Probably Works.’”
The trials, which will involve a carefully selected group of brave volunteers (read: poor students and desperate freelancers), are expected to begin in the autumn. This timing is, of course, impeccable, as it coincides with the Great British tradition of ignoring global health crises in favour of discussing the weather. “We anticipate a 95% success rate,” boasted Dr. Archibald Spooner, the lead researcher, while adjusting his monocle. “The remaining 5% will simply be given a stiff gin and told to walk it off.”
The breakthrough has been hailed as a triumph of British ingenuity, which is a fancy way of saying we’ve managed to do something useful without starting a war or colonising a small nation. The Daily Mail has already run a headline screaming “EBOLA CURE FOUND BY BRITISH HEROES – BUT WILL IT AFFECT HOUSE PRICES?” while the Telegraph has offered the more measured “Scientists Discover Cure, Also, Prince William Looks Dapper.”
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This is still a country where the NHS is on its knees, where junior doctors are paid less than a plumber, and where the primary medical advice for anything short of amputation is “have you tried paracetamol?” The Ebola vaccine is a wonderful thing, but it doesn’t change the fact that if you have a heart attack on a Sunday, you’ll be seen by a receptionist who will ask you to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten, then tell you to come back on Monday.
Nevertheless, the news has been met with cautious optimism. The World Health Organisation has called it a “significant stride forward,” which is WHO-speak for “we didn’t have to do anything, so cheers, Britain.” Meanwhile, Boris Johnson has reportedly demanded a press conference to personally take credit, only to be told the vaccine doesn’t work on terminal idiocy.
So there you have it. A British Ebola vaccine. Coming soon to a syringe near you. Let’s just hope they don’t ruin it by adding a bit of Brexit uncertainty or a splash of wet, grey drizzle. In the meantime, I’ll be at the pub, raising a glass to the scientists who finally gave us something to boast about. Cheers, you absolute legends. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a packet of crisps and a profound sense of relief.
