Olympus weeps, and not just from the smoke. Greece, that sun-baked jewel of antiquity, is once again being charbroiled by wildfires that would make Vulcan blush. Hundreds of firefighters, looking less like demigods and more like desperate ants, are battling a conflagration that has already devoured forests, threatened villages, and sent citizens fleeing like extras in a disaster film lacking only a catastrophic musical score. The EU, that magnificent bureaucratic spectacle, has finally roused itself from its slumbers to issue a plaintive cry for British aerial support. Yes, aerial support. Because nothing says ‘continental solidarity’ like begging the country you spent years publicly divorcing to come and drop water on your burning hedgerows.
Let us examine this plea with the cynical eye it deserves. Britain, a nation currently governed by a administration that considers ‘fixing the economy’ to be synonymous with ‘hiring a man to stand on a beach with a wooden spoon to dowse a burning oil tanker,’ is being asked to deploy its airborne firefighting assets. These assets, rumoured to consist of a decommissioned Chinook crewed by a hungover former RAF pilot and a Labrador named ‘Sooty,’ are undoubtedly the last bastion of hope. Never mind that the UK has its own track record of dealing with small fires by asking citizens to ‘keep an eye on it’ and ‘maybe pour a cup of tea on it if you’re feeling brave.’ We shall save the day, because we are British, and our stiff upper lips shall quench the flames, or at least form a suitably rigid barricade against the heat.
The real tragedy, of course, is not the fire itself – fires happen, it’s a warm country with a lot of dry shrubs – but the theatre of the response. Watch as EU commissioners speak in hushed, grave tones about ‘unprecedented cooperation’ and ‘European solidarity.’ Witness the British Prime Minister, emerging from a briefing to announce that ‘we stand with our Greek friends’ while simultaneously confirming that the spare firefighting budget has been allocated to a new fountain in Westminster. The plan, if one can dignify it with that word, involves a single water-bombing helicopter that has to stop for refueling at every Esso between Dover and Athens, piloted by a man who keeps asking for directions to ‘that place with the ruins.’
And what of the firefighters on the ground? They are the unsung heroes here, the real Greeks bearing gifts of sweat and grit. They fight with hoses and shovels, while above them, the aerial circus begins. Perhaps the EU should consider a more efficient proposition: instead of begging for British planes, simply hire a squadron of Ryanair pilots. At least they’d get the job done with a minimum of fuss and a surcharge for the smoke. But no, we must have the pageantry of international aid, complete with flags and press releases and the quiet, unspoken understanding that this will all be forgotten as soon as the next crisis hits.
Let us raise a glass of warm, aviation-grade gin to the brave souls who will extinguish this mess. And to the EU, a gentle reminder: next time you want Britain’s help, perhaps specify ‘aerial support’ means planes with water, not just the collective sigh of an entire nation watching your continent burn from the safety of its rainy shores.
