The Trojan Neigh

Trump’s appointment of Robert F. Kennedy Jr. as Secretary of Health and Human Services is one of those political moments where you’re not sure whether to laugh, cry, or disinfect the lot of them with industrial bleach.

On the surface, it looks like a bold move to give the anti-vaxxers their very own seat at the grown-ups’ table. In reality, it’s a bit like appointing a fox as Secretary for Henhouse Security and then being surprised when feathers start drifting across the lawn.

Now, I’m not saying RFK Jr. is a bad man. No - he’s just one of those chaps who can look at a perfectly good vaccine and see a sinister plot involving Bill Gates, a weather balloon, and an 18th-century cod liver oil salesman. He probably does believe every word of it, which is where the trouble starts. Trump, meanwhile, almost certainly doesn’t - he just thinks it plays well with the punters and annoys the “deep state” doctors who keep telling him bleach isn’t a cocktail mixer. Whether by design or blunder, the effect is the same.

Federal levers nudge guidance, funding streams and messaging; states set mandates; pharmacies and insurers shape access. Shift those three and coverage slips. Outbreaks follow - first and worst in communities already struggling with poor access, limited transport, and under-resourced clinics. The wealthy will be better insulated, not safe. They can still buy private vaccines or fly abroad if needed. And yes, the odd yoga-belt postcode will talk itself out of jabs too.

And here’s where the Trojan Horse bit comes in. The outer shell - a gleaming promise of “health freedom” and “choice” - is rolled into the gates of public health. Inside is a crack team of policies and appointees armed with mistrust, budget cuts and a set of 1970s home remedies. Out they spill, and who gets trampled first? Not the country club set in their gated communities - they’ll still be able to buy a boutique measles jab from their private doctor while sipping artisanal green juice. No, it’s the poor sods in the towns where the local clinic already has a three-month waiting list and the nearest hospital is two bus rides away.

The protective shield of the herd works best when there’s an actual herd, not a handful of stragglers coughing in the dust while the shepherds argue about whether the wolves are real. So perhaps it isn’t a deliberate plot to cull the poor and uneducated - but if it were, you couldn’t design it better. The believers are handed the steering wheel, the doubters are too skint to get out of the car, and the elites are in the next lane in an armoured limo. And at the front of the parade? RFK Jr., on a magnificent wooden horse, smiling benignly as the drawbridge goes up behind him.