Good news and bad news in the flu furore

The worst of the outbreak may be over, but there are still no plans for a comprehensive vaccination

The good news is that we appear to be over the worst of this year's flu outbreak.

The bad news (for worried parents like me) is that there is still no sign of the flu vaccine being made available to children and the under-fives in particular.

I aired my frustrations about being unable to vaccinate my 20-month-old daughter against this potentially fatal but utterly preventable disease on this blog earlier in the week – saying that I couldn't help feeling that it was all ultimately down to saving money.

On Thursday, I was given the opportunity to put these concerns directly to the NHS director of immunisation, Professor David Salisbury.

He spoke to me as the latest figures show seven confirmed deaths of children under five from flu since September, against 11 deaths in the five-to-14-year-old age range, 59 deaths among those aged 15-44, 78 deaths in those aged 45-64 and 55 deaths among the over-65s.

The cumulative total number of confirmed flu deaths since September currently stands at 254 – a sharp increase on last week's total of 112. But because of a two-week time lag in the death statistics filtering through, that sharp increase reflects the peak (fingers crossed) of the disease a few weeks ago, rather than the current picture.

I said to Professor Salisbury that it is all very well saying that children are at a comparitively low risk of dying from flu, but that this will provide little comfort for parents grieving the loss of those who have died from this preventable illness.

He said:

Supply of vaccine is driven by customers. If customers order the vaccine, industry then increases supply. It's not a capacity issue, it's an issue to do with what is the best use of the resources that we have available to us.

He said that the latest information was that those identified as being in the high-risk groups – who are being offered the vaccine on the NHS – are around 20 times more likely to die from influenza than others. So, he said, that is why the vaccine is being offered on a risk basis, rather than one based on age – as happened last year, when those aged under five were offered the jab.

Those in the high-risk groups include over-65s, pregnant women and those with certain underlying health conditions.

Recorded numbers of people with flu-like symptoms have dipped since last week and the number of people in NHS critical care beds with flu symptoms on 20 January dropped to 418, down from 661 a week ago. Some 20 in critical care with flu were under-fives.

For those worried parents (like me), whose children don't fall into an at-risk category, the only thing to do is hope that supplies return to private clinics – which have been offering the jab for between £10 and £25 a pop – or else keep pestering your GP.

Prof Salisbury said to me that NHS high command only makes recommendations, but that it is up to GPs to make their own clinical judgements.

Dominic Ponsford is the editor of Press Gazette.

Dominic Ponsford is editor of Press Gazette

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad