The British Broadcasting Corporation, in a move that has shocked absolutely no one who has seen a map, has dispatched a man to La Guaira, the Venezuelan coastal town where the sky has decided to relocate to sea level. The BBC’s man, likely chosen for his ability to grimace convincingly while wearing a flak jacket, reports that the situation is, and I quote from his teleprompter, “desperate but not hopeless.” This is journalistic code for “we are all going to die, but the editor said to keep it chipper.
” Meanwhile, the UK government, in a stroke of generosity that can only be described as “guilt-flavoured,” has pledged an additional £50 million in aid. This is the same government that recently classified “pothole” as a natural disaster. The aid money, we are assured, will be spent on “immediate humanitarian needs” such as food, water, and dehumidifiers for the Foreign Office’s Venezuelan dossier.
The sheer audacity of sending an umbrella to a hurricane is a metaphor too perfect for this piece. But let us not be churlish. Fifty million pounds is a lot of money.
It could buy every Venezuelan a small rubber duck and a copy of the Guardian’s guide to democratic transition. However, the cynic in me suspects that half of it will be swallowed by “administration costs,” which is political shorthand for “someone’s cousin just bought a new yacht.” The BBC, bless their cotton socks, will continue to broadcast from the disaster zone, using satellite phones that cost more than the average Venezuelan’s annual income.
They will interview officials who will say things like “the situation is fluid” and “we are doing all we can,” which are the two most terrifying phrases in the English language. And we, the great British public, will sit in our damp kitchens, sipping tea, and feeling vaguely virtuous because we have donated a fiver to the Disasters Emergency Committee. We will then complain about the potholes.
The real story, my friends, is not the aid or the floodwater. It is the theatre of it all. The way we perform concern, the way we monetise tragedy, the way we turn human suffering into a lunchtime news bulletin with a fancy graphic.
But fear not. The BBC man is there. He is wearing a helmet.
He is very, very serious. And he has a lovely British accent. What more could a disaster possibly need?
