In a development that has sent tremors through the corridors of both scientific glory and Gallic indignation, British vaccine boffins have once again saved the world from a sticky end. The news that a British-made jab is leading the charge against Ebola as France confirms its first case is the kind of patriotic chest-thumping that would make even a remainer weep into his artisan gin. This, dear reader, is the moment we have been waiting for. The moment when our plucky island nation, all bunting and stiff upper lips, steps up to the plate while the continent dithers and frets about the euro and the correct way to pronounce croissant.
Let us consider the French situation. France. The land of philosophy, strident strikes, and that particular brand of arrogance that comes from believing your cheese is superior to all others. They have Ebola now. A single case, it seems, but that is like saying a single hornet in your underpants is a minor inconvenience. The French are panicking. They are doing what they do best: smoking Gauloises, gesticulating wildly, and blaming the British. But we, we are the heroes. We are the ones who, with a stiff gin and tonic and a stack of petri dishes, have produced a vaccine that is, apparently, the bees knees. The global response is being led by British science. Does that not warm the cockles of your treacherous heart?
But let us not get carried away. The vaccine in question is not some magic potion brewed by alchemists in tweed caps. It is a product of our glorious National Health Service, and more specifically, the scientists who toil away in laboratories that smell vaguely of stale biscuits and disinfectant. They have done it. They have created a weapon against a terrifying disease that turns people into leaky bags of organ soup. And the French, with their baguettes and berets, have to rely on us. The humiliation is almost too much to bear. President Macron will be spitting mad. He will probably threaten to impose a cheese tariff or something. But we shall not be cowed. We have the vaccine. We have the moral high ground. We have the best gin.
Of course, there is a subtext here. A little whisper that perhaps, just perhaps, this is all a bit much. Ebola is a dreadful disease, a horror show of biblical proportions, but the media has a habit of working itself into a frenzy over these things. Remember swine flu? Remember bird flu? They never quite materialised into the apocalypse we were promised. But this time, it is different. This time, it is happening in France. The first case of Ebola in the country that gave us the guillotine and the music of Serge Gainsbourg. It is a moment of high drama. And we, the British, are the knights in shining armour, waving our test tubes and our Oxford commas. Brexit has finally paid off. Not in trade deals or sovereignty, but in the ability to jab French citizens with a needle full of British know-how. That is the real dividend.
So raise a glass. Not of French wine, but of Glenfiddich or Gordons. Toast the scientists. Toast the NHS. Toast the idea of a global Britain that is not just about flag-waving but about saving lives. And spare a thought for the poor French bastards who are now relying on us to keep their intranasal passages virus-free. They will not thank us. They will never thank us. Their pride is too big, their baguettes too long. But we shall know. We shall know that when the chips were down and Ebola was knocking on the door of continental Europe, it was British ingenuity that kept it at bay. And that is a story worth telling. Even if it is only true for now.
In conclusion, Brexit was a mistake. But British vaccines are not. And if the French want to survive this, they can jolly well line up and bare their arms like the rest of us. Good show, Britain. Good show.
