In a development that has left the World Health Organisation reaching for the smelling salts and a stiff drink, the Democratic Republic of Congo is bracing for a 'catastrophic collision' between a spiralling Ebola outbreak and the arrival of Her Majesty’s medical corps. Yes, the same Britain that brought you the finest traditions of stiff upper lips, queuing for the plague cart, and a health service that could diagnose a hangover as a 'mild existential crisis' is now deploying its finest to the heart of darkness.
Let us pause for a moment to savour the sheer, beautiful absurdity of it all. Here we have the WHO, an organisation that has the institutional memory of a goldfish and the crisis management skills of a startled badger, finally admitting that the situation in the DRC is, to quote their official statement, 'a right bloody mess.' They predict a 'catastrophic collision,' which sounds less like a public health warning and more like the title of a disaster film starring Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson as a virologist with a heart of gold and fists of fury.
And into this chaos, Britain sends its medical teams. God save the NHS. I can picture them now, stepping off the plane in hazmat suits that look like they've been designed by a committee of accountants who've never actually seen a human body. They'll be armed with clipboards, a can-do attitude, and a perhaps misplaced faith in the power of a hot cup of tea to cure all ills. 'Ebola you say? Have you tried drinking a hot cup of tea and resting for a bit?'
The real 'catastrophic collision' here isn't just between an outbreak and a response. It's between the reality of a country with crumbling infrastructure, a legacy of colonial exploitation, and a virus that makes your internal organs liquefy, and the theatre of international aid, where bureaucrats in Geneva decide how many body bags to send while arguing over the price of rubber gloves. It's the collision of the sublime and the ridiculous, the heroic and the utterly futile.
Britain's deployment is, of course, a noble gesture. But let's not pretend it's anything other than a sticking plaster on a gaping wound. The real catastrophe is that we're still fighting a disease we've known about for decades, in a world where profit always trumps prevention. But hey, at least the gin in the airport departure lounge was on special offer. Here's to hoping our medics pack enough of it. They're going to need it.
