The Good Samaritans

J P W Mallalieu at Stoke Mandeville Hospital in 1956 argues foreigners have every right to use the NHS: after all, they built it.

Early this year, a friend of mine had his appendix removed in Moscow and was presented with a bill for £100. He protested that a Russian taken ill in Britain could have the operation free. He was not believed and had to pay. But when, some weeks later, he was about to come home, his £100 was returned to him—in blocked roubles. The Russians had been making inquiries, had caught up with at least one of the facts of British life and had decided that for one individual Briton, at least, there should after all be reciprocity.

When the National Health Service was launched the proposal that it should be as freely available to foreigners as it was to Britons was strongly and understandably criticised. But Nye Bevan persisted. He reminded the House of Commons that for centuries the Catholic Church had freely given treatment in its monasteries to all who asked for it, no matter from what country they came and he insisted that Britain should set an example to the rest of the world by reasserting the principle that in healing there should be no bounds. The fact that only one country, Sweden, which has plans to give free treatment to Britons taken ill there, has followed our example and that a country like Russia, so far from following the example, did not seem even to have heard of it, has tended to revive the criticisms made eight years ago. The critics find it hard that when, as a nation, we are barely keeping our heads above financial water, foreigners should get cheap teeth and spectacles at our expense or have their babies or operations in hospital beds which are badly needed for British patients. It was with this criticism in mind that I have just visited one of the more famous hospitals in the National Health Service.

Stoke Mandeville was built early in the war by the Ministry of Pensions to handle air raid and service casualties. It is now under the Royal Buckinghamshire and Associated Hospitals Management Committee. It is a general hospital catering like others for the normal ills of mankind and is able to provide a better than average service, partly because its buildings are relatively modern. But its service is not confined to the people of Buckinghamshire. I found that the general surgery wards, while I was there, were full of patients from Northampton. In a month's time they may well be full of patients from Oxford and, later on, from Reading. For the hospitals in those towns are so overloaded that there is a long waiting list for all but emergency cases. So Stoke Mandeville breaks down the boundaries, at least, of county and helps to take the load off its neighbours.

Further, the research which it is carrying on into, for example, rheumatism, under Dr A G S Hill, and the experience it has acquired in such things as plastic surgery, under Professor Pomfret Kilner, are attracting patients to its specialised services from all over the country. It is, I suppose, possible that some people in the neighbourhood of Aylesbury, who occasionally have to wait for treatment rather longer than they might otherwise have to do, resent the intrusion of such "foreigners" from other parts of the country—though I did not hear such resentment expressed. But I have heard resentment about a far more spectacular breach of boundaries which has followed the development of the Stoke Mandeville Spinal Injuries Department.

Years ago many people who suffered spinal injuries were abandoned. They were left to rot in bed, developing horrible bed sores, without hope for themselves and knowing that they were a burden to others, until they died. Stoke Mandeville, more perhaps than any other hospital in the world, has begun to change this. Paralysed men and women come there unable to do anything for themselves. By special machines and by special exercises they are taught to make other muscles do the work previously done by muscles which the paralysis has wasted. I saw a racing cyclist, whose legs no longer had feeling in them, managing to keep his leg muscles from atrophy by means of a specially designed bed cycle which he worked with his hands. I saw men in wheel chairs developing new strengths by practising archery, or playing table tennis, basket ball and even polo. Above all, these patients, who would once have been considered, and would have considered themselves, as rejects from society, are being taught that they can have a new and fully useful life. They are taught new jobs so that a steeplechase jockey, for example, who broke his back, eventually left the hospital having qualified as a chartered accountant; and he is now practising as such.

Despite the seriousness of the complaints with which it has to deal there is an atmosphere of gaiety in the Department; and in that atmosphere men and women who felt that they would never walk again are wheedled, cajoled and bullied by staff and fellow patients into taking their first, effortful steps. Inevitably, the successes here achieved are attracting patients not only from all over this country but also from all over the world. While I was there, I talked with a Frenchman, a Portuguese, a Turkish lady and a little Cypriot boy. In the hospital as a whole there were 16 foreign patients—a small number out of the total of 390—yet a number which may well seem exasperatingly large to some helpless Briton waiting for his turn. When I saw the treatment being given there to paraplegics and thought of my own god-child who is on the waiting list for a bed, I myself began to wonder whether in this, at any rate, charity could not begin at home and still be both Christian and Socialist.

And yet . . . it was impossible not to be moved by the sight of that black-eyed paralysed Cypriot boy, slowly regaining the power of movement in the same hospital where a British soldier was recovering from the wounds he had received in Cyprus; or by the sight of the boy's mother working in the wards, so that she could be near her son and help to repay the hospital for its care. It was impossible not to realise that but for the work of 122 foreigners, who now help as nurses, porters, cooks and maintenance staff at Stoke Mandeville, the general work of the hospital could not be carried on. Above all, it was impossible not to realise that, but for the work of a foreigner, the paraplegics in the hospital and, indeed, throughout the world would not have the hope which they feel today.

For the hospital's Spinal Injuries Department was founded and is still supervised by a 55-year-old German Jew who escaped from Hitler; and among his assistants are another German, Dr Michailis, and a Czech, Dr Melzak. Their skill, persistence and imagination have helped to create something of immeasurable value for a hitherto abandoned section of British people. I cannot believe that British people will want to deny to foreigners a share in something which foreigners have helped to create. But I hope we shall continue to go beyond quid pro quo's and accept into our care, as Stoke Mandeville has accepted into its care, with equal warmth both the British soldier shot by Cypriots, and the Cypriot boy paralysed by a cruel misfortune almost before his life had begun.

The entrance to the Spinal Injuries Unit at Stoke Mandeville Hospital. Photo: Getty.

J P W Mallalieu (1908-1980) was a Labour MP and New Statesman Westminster columnist.

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Why does food taste better when we Instagram it?

Delay leads to increased pleasure when you set up a perfect shot of your dinner.

Been on holiday? Take any snaps? Of course you did – but if you’re anything like me, your friends and family didn’t make it into many of them. Frankly, I can only hope that Mr Whippy and I will still be mates in sixty years, because I’m going to have an awful lot of pictures of him to look back on.

Once a decidedly niche pursuit, photographing food is now almost as popular as eating it, and if you thought that the habit was annoying at home, it is even worse when it intrudes on the sacred peace of a holiday. Buy an ice cream and you’ll find yourself alone with a cone as your companion rushes across a four-lane highway to capture his or hers against the azure sea. Reach for a chip before the bowl has been immortalised on social media and get your hand smacked for your trouble.

It’s a trend that sucks the joy out of every meal – unless, that is, you’re the one behind the camera. A new study published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology suggests that taking pictures of food enhances our pleasure in it. Diners at the food court of a farmers’ market in Philadelphia were asked either to photograph their meal or to eat “as you normally would”, then were questioned about how they found it. Those in the photography group reported that not only did they enjoy their meal more, but they were “significantly more immersed in the experience” of eating it.

This backs up evidence from previous studies, including one from this year in the Journal of Consumer Marketing, which found that participants who had been asked to photograph a red velvet cake – that bleeding behemoth of American overindulgence – later rated it as significantly tastier than those who had not.

Interestingly, taking a picture of a fruit salad had no effect on its perceived charms, but “when descriptive social norms regarding healthy eating [were] made salient”, photographing these healthier foods did lead to greater enjoyment. In other words, if you see lots of glossy, beautifully lit pictures of chia seed pudding on social media, you are more likely to believe that it’s edible, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
This may seem puzzling. After all, surely anything tastes better fresh from the kitchen rather than a protracted glamour shoot – runny yolks carefully split to capture that golden ooze, strips of bacon arranged just so atop plump hemispheres of avocado, pillowy burger buns posed to give a glimpse of meat beneath. It is hardly surprising that 95 million posts on Instagram, the photo-sharing site, proudly bear the hashtag #foodporn.

However, it is this delay that is apparently responsible for the increase in pleasure: the act of rearranging that parsley garnish, or moving the plate closer to the light, increases our anticipation of what we are about to eat, forcing us to consider how delicious it looks even as we forbid ourselves to take a bite until the perfect shot is in the bag. You could no doubt achieve the same heightened sense of satisfaction by saying grace before tucking in, but you would lose the gratification that comes from imagining other people ogling your grilled Ibizan sardines as they tuck in to an egg mayonnaise at their desk.

Bear in mind, though, that the food that is most successful on Instagram often has a freakish quality – lurid, rainbow-coloured bagel-croissant hybrids that look like something out of Frankenstein’s bakery are particularly popular at the moment – which may lead to some unwise menu choices in pursuit of online acclaim.

On the plus side, if a diet of giant burgers and salted-caramel lattes leaves you feeling queasy, take heart: if there is one thing that social media likes more than #avotoast, it is embarrassing oversharing. After a week of sickening ice-cream shots, a sickbed selfie is guaranteed to cheer up the rest of us. 

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

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