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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In Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2, every other line reeks of a self-help manual

This lame sequel suggests the makers have largely forgotten why the original was so refreshing.

The 2014 romp Guardians of the Galaxy boasted the budget of a blockbuster and the soul of a B-movie. What that meant in practice was that audiences had to endure the same biff-pow battle scenes and retina-blistering effects as any space adventure, but they were rewarded with eccentric characters and tomfoolery for its own sake.

Despite the Marvel Studios imprimatur, the film showed the forces of intergalactic evil being fought not by superheroes, but by a ragtag band of bickering goofballs: Peter Quill (Chris Pratt), aka Star-Lord, a self-regarding rogue in the Han Solo mould; the green-faced alien Gamora (Zoe Saldana); Drax (Dave Bautista), a literal-minded hulk; Rocket, a racoon-like warrior (voiced by Bradley Cooper); and Groot, a piece of bark that says “I am Groot” over and over in the dulcet tones of Vin Diesel. Movies this odd don’t usually become $770m smash hits but this one did – deservedly.

Those characters return in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2 (the “Vol 2” reflects Peter’s love of mix-tapes) but the new film suggests the makers have largely forgotten why the original was so refreshing. Gags are rehashed; several sequences (including an interminable slow-motion section involving a laser-powered arrow) are dragged way beyond their desirable lifespan. Late in the day, Rocket tells his shipmates that they have too many issues, which rather pinpoints the problem with the screenplay by the director, James Gunn. Gunn has saddled his characters with unreasonable baggage, all of it relating to family and belonging. No matter how far into space they travel, all roads lead back to the therapist’s couch.

Peter, raised by his late mother, is delighted when Ego (Kurt Russell) materialises claiming to be the father he never knew. The old man makes grand pronouncements, only to undercut them within seconds (“’Scuse me, gotta take a whizz”) but, on the plus side, he has his own planet and pulls the whole “One day, son, all this will be yours” shtick. Gamora also has family business to contend with. Her blue-skinned sister, Nebula (Karen Gillan), wants to kill her: Nebula has never quite got over Gamora being Daddy’s favourite. To be fair, though, he did force them to fight one another, replacing parts of Nebula’s body with metal whenever she lost, so it’s not like we’re talking about only one sister being allowed to watch Top of the Pops.

The more Peter gets to know Ego, the less admirable he seems as a father, and soon we are in the familiar territory of having parenting lessons administered by a Hollywood blockbuster. The reason for this became obvious decades ago: the film industry is populated by overworked executives who never get to see their children, or don’t want to, and so compensate by greenlighting movies about what it means to be a good parent. Every other line here reeks of the self-help manual. “Please give me the chance to be the father your mother wanted me to be,” Ego pleads. Even a minor character gets to pause the action to say: “I ain’t done nothing right my whole life.” It’s dispiriting to settle down for a Guardians of the Galaxy picture only to find you’re watching Field of Dreams with added asteroids.

Vol 2 gets by for an hour or so on some batty gags (Gamora misremembering the plot and star of Knight Rider is an especially juicy one) and on the energising power of Scott Chambliss’s glorious production design. The combination of the hi-tech and the trashy gives the film the appearance of a multimillion-dollar carnival taking place in a junkyard. Spectacular battles are shot through scuffed and scratched windscreens, and there are spacesuits cobbled together from tin pots and bubble-wrap. This is consistent with the kitschfests that inspired the Guardians aesthetic: 1980s science-fiction delights such as Flash Gordon, Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone and The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension.

If only Vol 2 had mimicked their levity and brevity. Gunn ends his overlong movie with a bomb being attached to a giant brain, but this is wishful thinking on his part. He hasn’t blown our minds at all. It’s just a mild case of concussion. 

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 27 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Cool Britannia 20 Years On

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