When Daniel Hannan, the Conservative MEP for the South East of England, took time out of his political schedule to schedule himself onto American television earlier this summer, his goal appears to have been to blow the whistle on the National Health Service. Leaping into the somewhat confused mix already whipped into a media panic as part of Barack Obama’s healthcare reform, Hannan toured the US rolling from one TV chat sofa to the next claiming the NHS to be an Orwellian relic and that he “wouldn’t wish upon anybody”. I imagine, then, that he has had little or no cause to use it.

Expecting of the National Health Service the same instantaneous pampering you may demand of BA Club World while approaching JFK from 30,000 feet, you are certain to be disappointed. But ask those who have used and needed healthcare in this country at any time during the past 50 years and the majority would not have survived without it.

As we approach another World Aids Day this year in Brighton and with our new memorial firmly ensconced on the outskirts of the city (where it won’t frighten the children), it might be prudent to take time out to think of those who devote their lives to support and care for those affected by HIV/Aids, and those whose working lives are centred around searching for a cure, relief, vaccination... erm, in short those in the employ of that Orwellian relic that is the NHS.

I appreciate that the Mail On Sunday is unlikely to run a front-page story of the breast-cancer patient who was happy with her care and has lived to tell the tale, or indeed of the well-timed hip-replacement surgery after which the patient was back playing tennis within six months, as these are not nearly alarmist or inflammatory enough examples to satisfy our grumbling British temperament.

By the age of 21, I had experienced the inside of four operating theatres up and down the country and not only do I have no complaints, I would also commend all those who cared for me. I was bumped up the waiting list on two occasions to fit appointments in with my university holidays, and the consultant telephoned my mother 300 miles away to allay her fears – just two examples of the Dickensian hopelessness of a service we wouldn’t wish on anybody.


There are consequences to taking a beating that I feel we should all consider. If every time you leave the house you get a kicking, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to suggest that there might come a time when you would no longer want to venture into the outside world. Imagine working for a national institution that is ridiculed in the press, bemoaned by members of the public and internationally discredited by the very representatives of our country who should be flying the flag. I wouldn’t want to work there.

That’s not to say that there are not pockets of improvement to be had. Working in a government-funded institution myself, I am all too aware of the target-setting, practicality-stifling red tape consistently stirred up by authority both near and far, but somebody has to be in charge. Such an enormous undertaking cannot be seen to free-float its services without leadership, structure or accountability. But similarly, we all have a shared responsibility, to quote (and I can’t believe I’m about to do this) Mr Cameron in Manchester: “We’re all in this together”.

Only the fat-cat pig in Club Class tosses his litter to the floor and expects the crew member to pick it up because that’s what they’re there for. Yet how many times have you have tossed your cigarette butt onto the ground or dropped your sandwich wrapper without a thought for those who clean your streets?

When you look up at that memorial, do remember the dead, but give a thought, too, to the living who bathed the sick. Remember those you’ve lost, but also those who found you weeping and handed you a tissue. When you cast an eye at the deductions on your payslip and bitch about your National Insurance contributions, think about the dozens of immunisations you’ve taken without a thought to those who administered them. The phone call you received from your GP to ease your mind because someone you work with might have had swine flu. As your ageing parents and grandparents slowly took leave of you and spent their last weeks in hospital, think of what hard work it was for you to visit them for two hours each day; but think more for those who brushed their hair, took them to the toilet and changed their clothes. Think of the repeat prescription drugs available on demand at little (or sometimes no) cost to you or your family.

Visit the Brighton Aids Memorial. But please, don’t remember the dead at the expense of those who are helping you live.