It’s 5.40pm on Friday in the London HQ of the Department for Health. Prof Chris Whitty (plus several tweets worth of letters after his name) let out a sigh and loosen his tie. It had been a hell of a week helping the UK Government fight the global pandemic.

God knows, some of them were idiots. But these were challenging days and he knew, deep in his soul, as one of the finest scientific minds of his or any generation, he could help them beat it. It would be a battle (some of them weren’t very bright and more interested in money

Than saving lives) but dammit, he was going to do everything he could. He ran his hand across his tense face and inhaled, imagining when he might get that hit of single malt to calm his nerves after 18 hour days and the pressure of the nation’s safety on his shoulders.

Then he remembered. After seven months battling a global pandemic he had made a promise to his grandkids the weekend before during a fleeting socially distanced visit. He would get a Twitter account. Pah! A man of his intelligence had no need for that nonsense.

But a promise was a promise. Reaching for his iPhone, still warm from an hour trying to explain the finer points of contagion to Matt Hancock, he downloaded the Twitter app and created an account with the handle ‘WhittyBoi765754439’. As several days talking the the bosses of

Hospital Trusts echoed around his head, he looked with horror what appeared on the glass screen of his phone. Graph after graph presented by Karen from Essex proving him wrong. Chants of ‘open the stadiums’. Andrew Neil having now discovered Sweden. Claims that the virus was

‘Fizzling out all across Europe.’ People desperate for the pub to plug holes in their empty lives absolutely adamant it was ‘a bit of flu’. His eyes widening by the second and sweat breaking out on his forehead, Professor Whitty instinctively reached for the landline.

‘Janice, get me JVT on line one. Pronto.’ He barked, the panic barely disguised in his voice. There was a tone as his call was patched through. ‘Chris? What is it?’ Prof Whitty’s lower lip trembled with fear. ‘It’s all wrong. It’s all on Twitter. We got it all wrong. Karen says

So.’
‘What is she sure?’
‘GODAMN RIGHT SHE’S SURE!’ Whitty screamed. ‘She even posted a meme about it all just being a bit of flu.’
‘Chris, let’s be calm...’
‘JVT, they have.... graphs.’
There was a lingering silence at the other end of the line.
‘Shit, graphs?’

‘Yes’ replied Whitty, his voice finally cracking. ‘Graphs.’
‘Why did we not think to look on Twitter?’ Sobbed JVT. ‘Why? They are right about almost everything on there. Look at every election and referendum since Twitter was invented.’
‘May god have mercy on our souls’ cried

Whitty, his shirt now sodden with sweat and tears.
‘Who... who is going to tell the PM?’

STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO PROBABLY NEVER