Corona Diaries: miracle cures for the president

Today there will be a gap in my life, and most likely in that of millions of Americans. Donald Trump, apparently, will not be appearing at the daily White House coronavirus briefing. But at least we now know why the president comes out with his series of innovative cures for the disease. It seems that he obsessively watches obscure TV channels that run ads and interviews with people who have come up with these cures. They also send emails, which his dutiful minions print out and shove under his nose just as he’s about to speak to the nation.

Then he turns up at the briefings, unbriefed, with the latest idea. He runs them past his medical advisers live on prime-time TV, giving us the supreme entertainment of watching Doctors Fauci and Birx putting themselves into an altered state in order to avoid the slightest micro-expression that might betray their amusement or exasperation.

The spectacle reminds me of the famous Biggus Dickus scene in Monty Python’s Life of Brian, in which Brian’s guards struggle to maintain their composure as Pontius Pilate discusses his friend’s interesting name. Not to mention that of his friend’s wife.

Anyway, in Mr Trump’s absence, I’ve been working on a set of flash cards that I shall be sending to the White House with the suggestion that one should be shown to him every day before his briefings. On each card, in very large lettering and with as few words of more than one syllable as possible, will be written a Cure of The Day.

I’m down to a short list of ten, from which I shall select the final deck of cards. These are:

• Broccoli
• Viagra
• Carbon Monoxide
• Radium
• Hypnosis
• Magnets
• Hair spray
• Cigarettes
• Bat’s urine
• Camembert

The last, by the way, is my favourite. I’ll leave it to your imagination to work out the scientific basis of these cures. But suffice it to say, I have some wealthy and powerful backers, including members of the president’s own family, encouraging me with my research.

I’m also working on a new prophylactic device that will dramatically cut down infections. It’s called a fart filter. I designed it after reading recent research suggesting that flatulence spreads the virus. I referred to this theory in an earlier post a few weeks ago:

The best one I saw was that if you’re infected and you have diarrhoea, if you fart you leave a plume of virus-laden gas 200 feet long. You mean people are out there measuring the coverage area of farts now? I find this one somewhat hilarious. In my experience, anyone suffering from the runs is aware of the necessity never to ignore a wet fart, and heads for the nearest convenience post haste.

I appreciate the possibility that faecal matter may spread the bug, but surely that means that you should be very careful where you go to the loo, wear a face mask and wash your hands, not that you should run a mile when someone sends forth a trumpet blast. Also, if farts spread the virus, anyone in a confined space, such as a lift or, worse still, an aircraft, is effectively done for. In which case, should the theory be proven correct, expect the temporary shutdown of air transportation across the planet.

I posted that on February 25^th, long before air transportation ground to a halt. I’d like to say that my prophetic skills equal my scientific and engineering expertise, but I won’t.

Now, it seems, the evidence has become compelling (or repelling, depending on your point of view). So I’ve been working on the fart filter day and night. It comes in two variants – one for when the user is wearing clothes, and the other for when they aren’t. Once it’s perfected I will be sending a consignment free of charge to the White House and to my home equivalent, 10 Drowning Street.

Hopefully I will be more fortunate than my fellow inventor, James Dyson, whose engineers have been toiling around the clock to build a new type of ventilator, only for the British government to tell him that it’s surplus to requirements. It’s a decision that will be likely to deter other inventor-entrepreneurs, but I am undeterred, because I have witchcraft on my side.

Speaking of witchcraft, I hear that Dominic Cummings, the government’s chief Boris-whisperer, has been attending the SAGE meetings. As far as I’m aware, sage is not one of the cures proposed to Donald Trump, but it’s quite popular here in Britain. It’s the code name for a secretive cabal of scientific advisors who tell Boris what he should or shouldn’t do to combat the virus. The two options – should or shouldn’t – appear to be interchangeable, which might explain the government’s frequent change of priorities.

Be that as it may, there have been expressions of horror among the scientific community that Mr Cummings, a political adviser, has been participating in these gatherings. I have some sympathy for him. Surely, at this time of crisis, science can’t be divorced from politics. Just as it would be wrong to ignore alternative solutions such as mine, but also more established techniques such as homeopathy, faith healing and praying to ancestors, there must be a place for witchcraft in the deliberations of the great and the good.

If he finds that his input is spurned, my advice to Mr Cummings is that he should head straight to the White House, where no doubt he will be warmly received.

And if he does, I’ll make sure he brings my flash cards with him. Hope springs eternal.