In a development that has left even the most seasoned conspiracy theorists scrambling for their tinfoil hats, Air India has confirmed that the 158 passengers and crew listed as fatalities in yesterday's tragic crash... weren't actually on the plane. Yes, you heard that correctly. The victims were apparently on a different plane. Or perhaps a bus. Or maybe they just fancied a day off while the rest of the world mourned their passing.
Families, who had been dutifully weeping into handkerchiefs and accepting condolences from well-meaning neighbours, are now less than chuffed. 'I've already picked out the funeral hymns,' sobbed Mrs. Patel, whose husband Rajesh was listed among the deceased. 'Now I have to cancel the catering? It's a bloody nightmare.'
Air India, in a statement that reads like a rejected Monty Python sketch, explained that a 'clerical error' had led to the miscount. The actual plane, which crashed into a remote mountain range, was carrying a cargo of prize-winning gerbils and a single, very confused accountant from Slough. The real passengers, meanwhile, were enjoying complementary peanuts on a flight to Mumbai that had been delayed due to... well, let's just say 'unforeseen circumstances' and leave it at that.
This is, of course, a metaphor for modern life. We mourn the wrong things, celebrate the wrong victories, and book flights on planes that don't exist. The families, now united in their fury, have formed a picket line outside Air India headquarters, brandishing placards that read 'When Is a Crash Not a Crash?' and 'My Husband Is Alive. Please Stop Sending Flowers.'
It’s a triumph of absurdity over logic, a masterclass in the theatre of the macabre. And somewhere, in a gin-soaked bar in Delhi, I raise a glass to the accountant from Slough. He may have missed his flight, but he’s the only one who made it home.
