Medical futurology is no excuse for the UK's organ failures

A mouse with a human liver is extraordinary indeed, but we should do better with what science has provided.

We can create a mouse with a human liver. So, no longer any need to face up to the tricky subject of organ donation, right? Wrong. One of the dangers of such achievements is that we begin to think that a solution to the organ crisis is just around the corner.

The Japanese mouse-human chimera involved taking adult stem cells from human skin and chemically inducing them to return to their “pluripotent” state, where they can become any kind of cell. Further treatment guided them to take the form of liver cells, which were then grafted into the mouse. There, they connected to the blood vessels and formed into a functioning human liver.

The work built on an idea first put forward by the US geneticists Tim Townes and Thomas Ryan in 2000. They spotted that knocking out certain genes and inserting genetic material from an afflicted patient allowed you to rear an animal whose heart, liver, pancreas or blood or skin cells were human – that were genetically matched to the recipient and were in every way perfect for transplantation.

By coincidence, Townes and Ryan submitted their patent application on the day after Sally Slater was discharged from a hospital in Newcastle. Slater, aged six, had undergone an emergency heart transplant after a virus attacked her cardiac tissue. Her donor was a recently deceased, middle-aged woman whose family came forward to help after Slater’s father issued an emotional appeal through the national media.

Every year in the UK, a hundred or so families go the other way and overrule the wishes of a deceased relative who had wanted to donate his or her organs. In the decade that it might take for the Japanese success to make any headway into patient treatment, more than a thousand families could dash the hopes of the desperately ill. That’s in this country alone, where more than 7,000 people are waiting for transplants. A thousand of them will die this year because of a lack of organs. Slater, now a thriving 19-year-old with a 62-year-old heart, has been vocal and active in drawing attention to the shortfall, encouraging more people to sign up for organ donation.

Things might get a little better after the 2 July decision by the Welsh Assembly to adopt “presumed consent” for organ donation. After 2015, people in Wales who don’t want their organs recycled will have to sign the opt-out register. Somewhat perversely, organs from Wales will be available to patients in the rest of the UK, which remains opt-in after a 2008 review concluded that opt-out was unlikely to increase the number of donated organs and risked reducing their availability IN THE FRAME by undermining trust in the medical profession.

Britain has one of the highest refusal rates in Europe, with half of all families denying organs if the deceased’s wishes are not known. In some ways this is understandable. It is only 45 years since the first UK liver transplant and 30 since our first heart-and-lung transplant. That is a very short time, in human terms, in which to contemplate changes to our death rituals.

Nonetheless, we should do better with what science has provided – regardless of what is coming. A mouse with a human liver is extraordinary indeed. But scientists have also made great strides in learning how to perform transplants, how to suppress the immune system’s rejection of foreign tissue and how to care for those who have gone through such traumatic procedures.

It would be a terrible shame if the advances of stem-cell research were to provide any further excuse for refusing to save a life.

Japanese scientists have grown human liver cells in mice. Photograph: Getty Images

Michael Brooks holds a PhD in quantum physics. He writes a weekly science column for the New Statesman, and his most recent book is At the Edge of Uncertainty: 11 Discoveries Taking Science by Surprise.

This article first appeared in the 15 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The New Machiavelli

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In the 1980s, I went to a rally where Labour Party speakers shared the stage with men in balaclavas

The links between the Labour left and Irish republicanism are worth investigating.

A spat between Jeremy Corbyn’s henchfolk and Conor McGinn, the MP for St Helens North, caught my ear the other evening. McGinn was a guest on BBC Radio 4’s Westminster Hour, and he obligingly revisited the brouhaha for the listeners at home. Apparently, following an interview in May, in which McGinn called for Corbyn to “reach out beyond his comfort zone”, he was first threatened obliquely with the sack, then asked for a retraction (which he refused to give) and finally learned – from someone in the whips’ office – that his party leader was considering phoning up McGinn’s father to whip the errant whipper-in into line. On the programme, McGinn said: “The modus operandi that he [Corbyn] and the people around him were trying to do [sic], involving my family, was to isolate and ostracise me from them and from the community I am very proud to come from – which is an Irish nationalist community in south Armagh.”

Needless to say, the Labour leader’s office has continued to deny any such thing, but while we may nurture some suspicions about his behaviour, McGinn was also indulging in a little airbrushing when he described south Armagh as an “Irish ­nationalist community”. In the most recent elections, Newry and Armagh returned three Sinn Fein members to the Northern Ireland Assembly (as against one Social Democratic and Labour Party member) and one Sinn Fein MP to Westminster. When I last looked, Sinn Fein was still a republican, rather than a nationalist, party – something that McGinn should only be too well aware of, as the paternal hand that was putatively to have been lain on him belongs to Pat McGinn, the former Sinn Fein mayor of Newry and Armagh.

According to the Irish News, a “close friend” of the McGinns poured this cold water on the mini-conflagration: “Anybody who knows the McGinn family knows that Pat is very proud of Conor and that they remain very close.” The friend went on to opine: “He [Pat McGinn] found the whole notion of Corbyn phoning him totally ridiculous – as if Pat is going to criticise his son to save Jeremy Corbyn’s face. They would laugh about it were it not so sinister.”

“Sinister” does seem the mot juste. McGinn, Jr grew up in Bessbrook during the Troubles. I visited the village in the early 1990s on assignment. The skies were full of the chattering of British army Chinooks, and there were fake road signs in the hedgerows bearing pictograms of rifles and captioned: “Sniper at work”. South Armagh had been known for years as “bandit country”. There were army watchtowers standing sentinel in the dinky, green fields and checkpoints everywhere, manned by some of the thousands of the troops who had been deployed to fight what was, in effect, a low-level counter-insurgency war. Nationalist community, my foot.

What lies beneath the Corbyn-McGinn spat is the queered problematics of the ­relationship between the far left wing of the Labour Party and physical-force Irish republicanism. I also recall, during the hunger strikes of the early 1980s, going to a “Smash the H-Blocks” rally in Kilburn, north London, at which Labour Party speakers shared the stage with representatives from Sinn Fein, some of whom wore balaclavas and dark glasses to evade the telephoto lenses of the Met’s anti-terrorist squad.

The shape-shifting relationship between the “political wing” of the IRA and the men with sniper rifles in the south Armagh bocage was always of the essence of the conflict, allowing both sides a convenient fiction around which to posture publicly and privately negotiate. In choosing to appear on platforms with people who might or might not be terrorists, Labour leftists also sprinkled a little of their stardust on themselves: the “stardust” being the implication that they, too, under the right circumstances, might be capable of violence in pursuit of their political ends.

On the far right of British politics, Her Majesty’s Government and its apparatus are referred to derisively as “state”. There were various attempts in the 1970s and 1980s by far-right groupuscules to link up with the Ulster Freedom Fighters and other loyalist paramilitary organisations in their battle against “state”. All foundered on the obvious incompetence of the fascists. The situation on the far left was different. The socialist credentials of Sinn Fein/IRA were too threadbare for genuine expressions of solidarity, but there was a sort of tacit confidence-and-supply arrangement between these factions. The Labour far left provided the republicans with the confidence that, should an appropriately radical government be elected to Westminster, “state” would withdraw from Northern Ireland. What the republicans did for the mainland militants was to cloak them in their penumbra of darkness: without needing to call down on themselves the armed might of “state”, they could imply that they were willing to take it on, should the opportunity arise.

I don’t for a second believe that Corbyn was summoning up these ghosts of the insurrectionary dead when he either did or did not threaten to phone McGinn, Sr. But his supporters need to ask themselves what they’re getting into. Their leader, if he was to have remained true to the positions that he has espoused over many years, should have refused to sit as privy counsellor upon assuming his party office, and refused all the other mummery associated with the monarchical “state”. That he didn’t do so was surely a strategic decision. Such a position would make him utterly unelectable.

The snipers may not be at work in south Armagh just now – but there are rifles out there that could yet be dug up. I wouldn’t be surprised if some in Sinn Fein knew where they are, but one thing’s for certain: Corbyn hasn’t got a clue, bloody or otherwise. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser