2 1GT Monday November 9 2020 | the times

times

I

odine: we all probably have a

sense-memory of it. That blood-

like drop to purify a camping can

of stream-water or the inky dab

with which your grandmother

stained your grazed knee. It feels

like an old-fashioned, primitive

home remedy, yet could it also

be an intriguing new weapon against

our most modern threat: coronavirus?

Stephen Challacombe, one of the

world’s leading authorities on infection

in the mouth and nose, believes the

answer is yes. He is a professor of oral

medicine at King’s College London,

with a specialism in the immunology

of the mucous membranes. His

decades of experience meant that

when the pandemic hit, his mind went

immediately to one — literal —

solution. Iodine mouthwash. “Yes. I

have no doubt that this should be

used,” Challacombe says, “and had it

been, it would have saved lives.”

Bottles of this form of iodine, called

povidone-iodine, also known by the

most common brand Betadine, used

to be on sale in British chemists,

before the public began to favour

fluoride rinses. It is still popular as a

sore-throat gargle in many European

countries, America, Australia and Far

East countries such as Japan. When

the pandemic struck, Challacombe

and his colleagues wrote to the

British Dental Journal reminding the

scientific world of its potential.

There followed a flurry of studies

showing the effectiveness of iodine

mouthwash on Covid-19 in test tubes.

They repeatedly concluded that after

15 seconds in contact with a weak

solution of this kind of iodine 99.

per cent of the virus was killed. There

soon followed several tests on humans

with Covid-19, but in numbers too

small to draw conclusions. They

indicated that iodine mouthwash

pretty much wiped out the Covid-

for a time. What is needed is larger

studies, especially into how long

iodine keeps Covid-19 at bay. Sceptics

say that the effect could last just a few

useless minutes, and point to a mixed

bag of results for iodine mouthwash

against viruses such as colds.

However, Challacombe suspects the

effect lasts longer. What if a quick

gargle by a Covid hospital patient

made them safe for long enough to

protect healthcare workers getting

near them? That’s before the truly

big dreams — of iodine as part of an

anti-Covid-19 self-help regimen.

In the meantime, given that this

mouthwash is safe, cheap and easy,

should we be using it before we have

robust evidence that it kills the virus in

humans? This story becomes, in a way,

a test case of how to balance risk and

responsibility. On the one hand the

government’s scientific advisers and

the British Dental Association’s verdict

is a conservative and cautious no. This

mouthwash is well tolerated, but there

may be unforeseen risks and little

gain. As Ian Jones, a virology professor

at the University of Reading, tells me,

the mouthwash may kill the virus, but

it may be back in no time; it’s “the

constant replacement of the virus that

is the issue”.

Challacombe appreciates this

reliance on the normal high standards

of scientific proof, but he also thinks

that these are extraordinary times.

Given the strength of the test tube

evidence, and “the low risk, minimal

cost and global applicability”, he says,

“we feel that there is little to lose and

potentially much to gain [to use it]

while we get that information”.

Professor Valerie O’Donnell is

the co-director of Cardiff University’s

Systems Immunity Research

I have no doubt:

had this been

used it would

have saved lives

Kevin Maher

I

am not going to lie, lockdown 2

is bad, but I don’t miss

hairdressers. They can be

dangerous places that tear your

world asunder. Look at — or,

maybe don’t — the luckless

nurse from Cheshire who, after

growing her hair for 16 years,

visited her local salon, ordered a

semi-permanent colour, and received

a dye job so botched and mangled

that she was left with “two giant

dreadlocks” that eventually, after

13 hours of teasing, scraping and

ripping, had to be cut free from

her head (she was recently awarded

nearly £6,000 compensation).

Or look at me (oh, go on!). I’ve been

there. Back in the day (the late 1990s),

I became enamoured with the idea of

getting some “frosting” done. You

know, frosting? Subtle tips and streaks

of blond in otherwise non-blond hair.

Like early-era Leonard DiCaprio or

turn-of-the century Brad Pitt, below.

It was all the rage, yet difficult to

explain to my local north London

barber, a burly Greek man with

limited English who glared at me

with barely disguised contempt when

I tried to describe the allure for the

modern man of electric shocks of

blond coursing through one’s

otherwise darkened locks. And

besides, I added, with something

of a poorly disguised boast, I was

appearing on television the next

morning, on Channel 4, for a film

reviewing gig, so I really wanted

to go for that wow factor.

Now I’m not sure exactly how he

interpreted “wow factor”, but what he

did, right then, was to put on a pair of

kitchen gloves, dig his hand deep into

an ancient plastic tub of gelatinous

dye, scoop out a fistful and squeeze

it roughly on to the top of my head

(from the fringe halfway to the crown).

He walked away with a grunt, left

the gloopy, burning mess in for

roughly 20 minutes, then returned

and casually washed it out, grabbing

clumps of newly exposed hair as he

went and examining them closely, as

if he’d just performed some arcane

science experiment. And the result?

A hideous orange blotch, like a

ginger cowpat, sitting cruelly on the

top of my head. Naturally, I stared in

the mirror aghast, and said absolutely

I bet Gary

hates to

talk footie

I see that Gary

Lineker has been

unfairly ridiculed for

hosting in his Surrey

home a refugee who

didn’t like football —

“hilarious” images of

awkward silences are

conjured up.

And yet, as a film

critic, my favourite

people are the ones

who know nothing

about, or even actively

dislike, film. My

favourite sentence is,

“Oh you’re a film

critic? I’m so sorry,

I rarely watch them.”

It’s such a joy because

there’s so much else

to discuss.

Conversely, I dread

the pumped up mini-

men (it’s always men)

who immediately try to

trip you up with arcane

movie references, such

as, “What? You haven’t

seen the short films of

Apichatpong

Weerasethakul!? Wow.

Being a film critic must

be easy!”

And that’s not

forgetting, “Oh, you’re

a film critic. So what’s

your favourite film?” I

have a fantasy about

punching everyone who

asks that question, but

I usually just reply with

the truth (The Wizard

of Oz). So, really, no

gags about Lineker

please. He was, as far

as I’m concerned, living

the dream.

Don’t look

after your

toys, kids

Last week, a couple

from Stourbridge were

surprised that a

collection of toys that

they’d inherited from

a neighbour was sold

at auction for over

£400,000. The Star

Wars ones alone were

sold for £250,000 and

one of the most prized

items among them was

a figurine of a Star

Destroyer Commander,

still in its packaging,

that sold for £32,500.

Which is annoying

because I’m looking at

that Star Destroyer

Commander now, on

my desk, only I stupidly

opened it when I was

eight. My son found my

Star Wars toy cache

recently and deposited

it in my study.

And now all I can

think of is, “If only I

hadn’t opened them.

If only I had been a

super-strange oddball

who was afraid to

embrace the values

of play and had

his eye, instead,

constantly on

financial rewards.”

Hmm. I think I made

the right choice.

nothing. Well, it would have been

rude, right, to complain or make a

scene? Instead, after mumbling out a

very meek “thank you” (yes, I actually

thanked him!), I left the building and

dashed around the neighbourhood (it

was 6pm, everything was closing) until

I found an open chemist. I bought a

cheap bottle of hair dye and spent the

night in the bathroom, repeatedly

nuking my whole head with painfully

hot bleach in the vain hope of

transforming that offensive cowpat

into a lovely, smooth and glowing

golden unity. Like Robert Redford in

The Way We Were. And the result?

Easyjet orange, the entire bonce.

Presented before the telly-watching

nation the next morning. I did my best

not to actually cry while attempting to

make informative points about the

future of Hollywood film stars in a

system increasingly favouring

franchises over personalities.

The poor presenter, eyes out on

sticks, eventually broke with protocol

and, mid-interview, decided to address

the fluffy orange elephant in the room

by saying, “I’ve got to ask. What have

you done with your hair? Was that for

a bet?” I tried to make light of it, while

flushing brightly with embarrassment

and muttering something about

making a killing. She replied that she

hoped it was worth it, but I had no

comeback. I just stared wordlessly

ahead of me, cringing awkwardly

and aware of only two things:

1) hairdressers are dangerous places

and 2) I clearly had the wow factor.

Keep those hairdressers

locked down and their

hands off my locks

Could a cheap

mouthwash

really be

a weapon

against Covid?

A leading authority on infection

thinks iodine could combat the virus.

Could it be true, asks Helen Rumbelow