A cobra in India. Photo: Getty
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No one will die of a snakebite in Britain this summer. Why?

The most recent snakebite death in the UK was in 1975. If only that were true elsewhere: snakebites kill up to 94,000 people and necessitate hundreds of thousands of amputations every year.

Here’s a prediction for the summer that’s much more reliable than anything you’ll get from the Met Office: in Britain, no one will die of a snakebite. The only venomous snakes on these shores are adders. Not only are their numbers in decline but they are timid and bite as a last resort. Each year, roughly a hundred people are bitten by adders in the UK but as few as 12 people have died in the past century as a result. The most recent death was in 1975.

If only that were true elsewhere. Snakebites kill up to 94,000 people and necessitate hundreds of thousands of amputations every year. Children and young people are most likely to be bitten and in some countries snakes kill as many people as Aids. Globally, the number of fatalities is up to 30 times that of landmines.

One of the biggest problems in treating snakebite is recognising which antivenom is needed. The mechanism by which the venom causes paralysis varies from species to species and giving the wrong antivenom can be worse than useless. Often, victims have to wait for the results of blood tests before the appropriate antivenom can be identified. But research published last month in the Journal of Tropical Medicine shows that it might be possible to create a universal antivenom that can be administered straight away as a simple nasal spray.

Before this paper was published, the universal antivenom neostigmine had already passed a couple of tests. In 2013, researchers injected a volunteer with a venom mimic, which caused a creeping paralysis that moved from the eyes to the diaphragm, causing difficulty in breathing. Twenty minutes after administration of the neostigmine nasal spray, the patient had completely recovered.

The second test was not a controlled experiment. It was carried out on a woman who was hooked up to a life-support machine after a snakebite in India. She had received 30
doses of antivenom but still had facial paralysis. The nasal spray relieved this after 30 minutes. Two weeks later, she was back at work.

In the latest study, mice were the unfortunate victims. They were given a lethal dose of cobra venom, followed by a single nasal dose of neostigmine ten minutes later. Two-thirds survived. The spray also allowed mice given ten times the lethal dose of cobra venom to survive six times longer than they otherwise would have. This suggests that even when it is not an instant cure, the spray could give people time to get to a hospital.

There’s still a long way to go, however. The researchers weren’t able to check the effectiveness of the nasal spray against different kinds of venom due to “limitations of funding”. Of even more concern is their admission that: “Both the efficacy and optimal uses of . . . therapies for neurotoxic snakebite remain unproven even after decades of widespread use.” In other words, hospitals have antivenoms but nobody is doing the studies that will show us how best to use them and how effective they are.

That’s almost certainly because 98 per cent of snakebite victims live in poverty, and treatment (and thus research) is largely paid by the victims or their family. Many bite victims are left disfigured or unable to work because of amputation or permanent paralysis and have to take out loans, sell livestock or crops and even pull their children out of school to get the cash they need. The World Health Organisation has called snakebites a “neglected threat to public health”. It is time for that neglect to end.

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 11 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The last World Cup

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The non-fiction novel that takes readers inside the head of Raoul Moat

Andrew Hankinson’s depiction of Moat’s unravelling is being marketed as biography/true crime, but its semi-fictional world is something more complex.

In July 2010, just weeks after becoming Prime Minister, David Cameron expanded upon his vision for the “Big Society” that he had first unveiled at the 2009 party conference. It promised a “big advance for people power”, in which individuals would be responsible for their actions. “To be British is to be sceptical of authority and the powers that be,” he told conference. “There is a ‘we’ in politics, and not just a ‘me’.”

That same month, just two days after being released from HMP Durham for the assault of a child, the self-employed gardener and former doorman Raoul Moat shot and injured his ex-girlfriend Samantha Stobbart and killed her boyfriend Chris Brown, who he wrongly believed to be a policeman. Moat went on the run, shooting a policeman at point-blank range, then fleeing to the rural Northumberland town of Rothbury. For a week, the story of this exotically named, delusional man who left behind a wealth of material, including letters and four-hour-long Dictaphone recordings, was given joint top billing with Cameron’s “Big Society” – soon to be as dead and buried as Moat, who, cornered by police after a seven-day hunt, killed himself.

The journalist Andrew Hankinson’s depiction of Moat’s unravelling is being marketed as biography/true crime, yet really is a non-fiction novel, in which writer and reader squat inside a mind that moves from irrational anger and self-pity to despondency. Moat’s is a solipsistic narration, in which he is the perennial victim – of circumstance, enemies, authoritarian bureaucracy, police harassment and past lovers. There is little room here for the outside world. Like most outlaws, Moat believed that everyone had failed him. “All my life I wanted death,” he laments.

The real-life Moat story, however, was more than that of a lone fugitive. It was also about rolling news coverage and Facebook groups, some of which celebrated Moat as a Ned Kelly-type folk hero – a “#ledge”. When Cameron denounced him in parliament he inadvertently elevated Moat to a clearer anti-authoritarian position: the antithesis of a “Big Society” citizen, in fact. It is also the story of the Northumbria Police force, which did its very best to show that it had everything under control when it really didn’t.

And, bringing an element of farce to a tragedy, it featured the subplot of a thoroughly leathered Paul Gascoigne – the most exciting and idiosyncratic footballer of his generation – tearing through the countryside in a taxi with a fishing rod, a dressing gown and a rotisserie chicken in an attempt to bring a sense of calm to the situation. “All I want to do is shout, ‘Moaty, it’s  Gazza! Where are you?’” he explained en route during a live radio phone-in. “And I guarantee he will shout his name out: ‘I’m here.’” Gascoigne’s pantomime intervention added to the chaos: now another disenfranchised northern male was running amok. The parallels were evident: Gazza’s career had been beset by injury and alcoholism, Moat’s bodybuilder’s physique was no longer in prime condition after weight loss in prison. Both were separated from their families and prone to self-examination. Onlookers knew it could quite easily have been Gazza holed up in those woods.

Other exponents of the non-fiction novel such as Norman Mailer and Gordon Burn would surely have put all this in, yet Hankinson chooses not to cover any of the peripheral subplots, instead using a second-person narrative to burrow deep into Moat’s paranoia, sourcing all his text from real material. This narrative sacrifice in favour of a singular voice gives the book thrust and authenticity of voice, and manages to show the nuances of a man who was articulate and often capable, and had reached out to social services on many occasions for help. None of which excuses Moat’s action – but it does explain his choices. Where the tabloids favoured the simplicity of the textbook “cold-blooded killer”, Hankinson’s portrait lets the reader make his or her own judgement. Clearly Moat was a bully, and yet he was not born that way. Few are. “There’ll be books written about all this, and you’ll be made out to be some crazed fucking maniac,” he says to himself, with both foresight and grim resignation.

Elsewhere the semi-fictional Moat brushes over past transgressions and labours over the tiniest slights in such repetitive, droning detail that the reader’s sympathy soon wanes. The book’s strength lies in the real-life Moat’s keenness to confess – to be heard, finally, beyond death – through these nocturnal monologues, recorded in his tent after yet another meal of charred burgers. From these remnants, Hankinson deftly assembles the man’s inner workings, lending credibility to his portrait while, beyond the myopic commentary, we know, although we don’t see it, that the outside world is closing in. Critics might ask: why give voice to a loser? Perhaps because in the right hands any real-life story is worth telling, and history should never just record the heroes and victors. The losers play their part, too.

Ben Myers’s novel “Beastings” recently won the Portico Prize for Literature

You Could Do Something Amazing With Your Life [You Are Raoul Moat] by Andrew Hankinson is published by Scribe (211pp, £12.99)

Ben Myers’ novels include Pig Iron and Richard, a Sunday Times book of the year. His writing has appeared in The Guardian, NME, Mojo, Time Out, 3:AM Magazine, Caught By The River and many others. www.benmyersmanofletters.blogspot.com

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war