For 25 years, I have worked in professional environments where the word capacity is often wielded less as a measure of actual output and more as a convenient justification for inertia or underperformance. Never has this been more evident — or more dangerous — than in the government’s public claims about coronavirus testing.
Back in late March, Prime Minister Boris Johnson proudly announced the UK’s intention to ramp up daily COVID-19 tests from 5,000 to 10,000, then 25,000, and “hopefully very soon” to 250,000. A month on, with Johnson convalescing from the virus himself, his deputy Dominic Raab declared the government had a capacity of 40,000 tests per day, soon to reach 100,000.
But this is where government rhetoric turns from hopeful to hollow. Ministers are no longer talking about tests actuallyconducted but about capacity — a nebulous term implying that all the ingredients and infrastructure exist to perform those tests, even if they are not currently being fully utilised.
The difference is profound. Having capacity means having resources — kits, labs, staff, supply chains — theoretically ready to deliver. Actual testing, however, depends on the seamless operation of a complex system: from procuring supplies and managing labs, to collecting samples and returning results swiftly to patients.
Here lies the rub: Britain’s health and care sector does not possess this holistic capacity. Years of market-driven reforms — privatisation, outsourcing, the creation of artificial internal markets — have fragmented the system. Coupled with austerity-driven underfunding, this has left the supply chain riddled with vulnerabilities.
The government doesn’t conduct tests itself. Instead, it relies on a patchwork of private contractors, local NHS trusts, public health bodies, and commercial laboratories. Without integrated coordination and investment, these pieces struggle to function as a cohesive whole.
The consequences go beyond testing. Personal protective equipment shortages, care home crises, delayed contact tracing — all are symptoms of a fractured health and social care ecosystem ill-prepared for a pandemic. The care home scandals, epitomised by Winterbourne View and numerous subsequent cases, are a tragic reminder that the pursuit of market competition in health and social care has often come at the expense of patient safety and quality of care.
So while ministers boast about the government’s “capacity” to test 100,000 people daily, the stark reality is that the system to deliver those tests at scale remains deeply flawed. “Capacity” in government statements is often little more than political spin — a way to deflect blame while avoiding the hard work of fixing structural weaknesses.
This fixation on capacity also masks the lived experience of NHS and social care workers, who struggle daily with inadequate resources and conflicting directives. The government’s focus on hitting headline targets obscures the pressing need to build a genuinely resilient and integrated testing and care system.
The broader lesson here is that words matter. In politics and public health, capacity cannot be a euphemism for promise. It must translate into delivery. To claim otherwise is to gamble with lives.
The government must move beyond the illusion of capacity as a comforting statistic and confront the fragmented reality of Britain’s health and social care infrastructure. Only by addressing these long-term systemic failures can we hope to manage this pandemic — and the next crisis — effectively.
Until then, the difference between what the government can do and what it merely plans to do will remain a deadly chasm.
Irregular Frequencies 