Well, well, well. Here we go again. The Congo has kindly decided to host another Ebola outbreak, presumably because the universe hadn’t quite finished testing the limits of human misery. Britain’s rapid-response medical team, that plucky band of chaps and chapesses who spend their lives perfecting the art of hazmat suit origami, are on standby. The nation’s pulse quickens. The Daily Mail’s front page sprouts another apocalyptic headline. And somewhere in Whitehall, a civil servant is frantically Googling how to pronounce ‘equatorial forest region’ while polishing his crisis management badge.
This is the moment where journalism must transcend mere reporting and embrace the sheer, glorious absurdity of it all. Ebola, that marauding microbe with a penchant for haemorrhagic fever, has once again slipped its leash in the lush, green hell of the Congolese jungle. Experts warn that this strain might be cunning. It might have developed a taste for airline peanuts. It might, if we’re not careful, become the uninvited guest at the next G7 summit. But fear not. Britain’s finest are on standby. They will deploy their state-of-the-art field hospitals, their gene-sequencing machines, their bottomless supply of paracetamol, and their stiff upper lips. They will do so with the grim efficiency of a butler cleaning up a spilled gin and tonic.
The irony, of course, is as thick as a glass of London fog. We, who can barely keep our train tracks from turning into molten steel in summer, are meant to save the world from a virus that turns your insides into soup. We, who have spent the last decade perfecting the art of Brexit, are now the white knights of global health. Brexit: the gift that keeps on giving. Now we can control our borders, yes. We can also control the movement of Ebola. Presumably, that’s what ‘taking back control’ meant all along.
Let us not forget the ritual dance that accompanies such announcements. First, the sombre press conference with a man in a tie who looks like he hasn’t slept since 2014. He will mention ‘robust protocols’ and ‘world-leading expertise’ while failing to confirm if the ping-pong tables in the common room are adequately sanitised. Then, the speculation. Does this mean we’ll be quarantining entire counties? Will the Beeb produce a hastily assembled family tree of the virus, complete with illustrations that make it look like a tiny, angry badger? And finally, the public reaction: a mixture of panic, indifference, and a sudden surge in online sales of hand sanitiser.
But let us not mock the valiant efforts of those on the front line. They deserve our admiration. They deserve our funding. They deserve, at the very least, a comprehensive breakdown of how to pronounce ‘Ebola’ without sounding like you’re ordering a cocktail. ‘Ay-boe-la,’ I believe. Or is it ‘Ee-bola’? Whatever. We’ll settle on ‘Ebola’ and move on.
So we stand by. We wait. We hope. We update our emergency preparedness plans, which currently consist of a torch with dead batteries and a lingering sense of existential dread. And we salute the medics who will soon be sweltering in plastic suits, dodging frightened bats and angry politicians. For in the end, it is not the virus we fear. It is the memory of every previous outbreak, every mismanaged response, every promise to ‘learn lessons’ that we promptly forgot. Ebola will do what Ebola does. And Britain will do what Britain does: stand by, ready, willing, and slightly bewildered.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a bottle of Gordon’s and a copy of the WHO’s latest risk assessment. Cheers.
