In a development that makes the plot of 'Outbreak' look like a gentle episode of Teletubbies, a six-year-old Ebola patient has been kidnapped from a treatment centre in the Democratic Republic of Congo. British medical teams, who were already battling the second-worst outbreak of the disease in history, are now hot on the trail of an armed gang whose bedside manner makes Hannibal Lecter look like Mr Blobby.
Yes, dear reader, in a world where we can't even get the trains to run on time, a bunch of masked malcontents have somehow managed to pull off the most grotesque snatch-and-grab since the Krays stole a baby's lollipop. The child, who had been receiving treatment for the haemorrhagic horror that is Ebola, was reportedly taken at gunpoint from a clinic in Beni. The medics, who spend their days dressed in what can only be described as spacesuits for the apocalypse, are now engaged in a frantic search for the pint-sized patient and his abductors.
One can only imagine the scene: a bunch of sweating, double-gloved doctors and nurses, their faces obscured by visors, trying to negotiate with trigger-happy thugs who clearly didn't get the memo about the importance of infection control. 'Please, sir, you must wear a mask. It's for your own safety.' 'Bah, I am not afraid of your Western plagues. I take this child to my village where he will be cured by witchcraft and good intentions.'
But this is no laughing matter. The snatching of a sick child is an act of such profound moral bankruptcy that even the most hardened cynic would struggle to find a joke. Yet, in the circus of modern life, where every tragedy must be filtered through a lens of absurdity, one must ask: what kind of absolute bollocks-brain thinks kidnapping a child with a highly infectious, often fatal disease is a sensible plan? It's like stealing a ticking time bomb with a timer that counts down in leaking bodily fluids.
The British medical teams, who are frankly the only people in this story who seem to have a grasp on reality, have been lauded for their bravery. They are the unsung heroes of this godforsaken continent, battling not just disease but also the forces of superstition and stupidity. And now they must add 'detective work' to their CVs. 'Dr. Smith, you've successfully treated thirty cases of Ebola. Now, can you please locate a missing child in a dense jungle while armed men shoot at you? Splendid, you're hired.'
Meanwhile, the local authorities are doing what they do best: issuing statements that say nothing and promising action that never comes. 'We are doing everything in our power to locate the child and bring the perpetrators to justice,' they say, which is code for 'We have absolutely no idea where they are and will probably end up arresting some random bloke who owes us a favour.'
And let's not forget the international community, which will no doubt hold a summit, form a committee, and issue a strongly worded press release. That'll show them. Nothing sends a message like a strongly worded press release.
In the end, this story is a microcosm of everything that is wrong with the world: the sick are kidnapped, the brave are underpaid, the foolish are armed, and the rest of us sit at home reading about it on our phones while drinking gin. And what a fine gin it is, a crisp London dry that cuts through the despair like a scalpel.
So here's to the medics. May their gloves hold, their wits remain sharp, and that child find his way back to a bed instead of a blood-soaked ceremony. And to the kidnappers: may you catch the clap from a toilet seat in hell, you absolute weapons.
