In a development so utterly predictable it could have been scripted by a committee of depressed clairvoyants, a majestic whale has perished off the coast of Denmark. The creature, a species of baleen behemoth whose Latin name translates roughly to 'big fish that doesn't care about your petty territorial waters,' was found entangled in fishing nets, gasping its last in the cold Baltic brine. And who should come charging to the rescue, brandishing organic hemp megaphones and wearing ethically sourced tweed? Why, British wildlife groups, of course, who have now demanded 'global rescue reforms' with the sort of earnest urgency usually reserved for the last slice of Battenberg at a WI meeting.
Let's be clear. The tragic death of any creature is a cause for sorrow, particularly when it's a whale, an animal whose very existence seems to mock the meagre ambition of humanity. But the response from our island's conservationists is a masterclass in missing the point. They want 'global rescue reforms.' They want 'international frameworks for rapid response.' They want, one presumes, a kind of Cetacean Coastguard funded by organic quinoa taxes. All of which is noble, all of which is pointless, and all of which neatly sidesteps the fact that the real problem is the fishing industry itself, an enterprise that drags the ocean floor like a drunk dragging his knuckles across a carpet.
This is not a radical stance. It is two plus two. We know that industrial fishing kills whales. We know that bycatch is an obscene, silent massacre. We know that the only way to stop whales dying in nets is to stop putting nets where whales live. But that would require actual change, actual sacrifice, actual inconvenience for the people who eat fish fingers and the corporations that supply them. Much easier, much more British, to form a committee, write a strongly worded letter to The Guardian, and demand that someone else do something. Preferably the Danes. They have those nice pastries.
But let us not single out the Danes. The whale could have died anywhere. It could have died in Scottish waters, where the government recently approved seismic blasting in a protected whale sanctuary because, as we all know, a few deaf cetaceans are a small price to pay for the privilege of extracting fossil fuels that will cook the planet. It could have died in the Thames, where we once famously rescued a whale and then refused to acknowledge that the river is essentially a giant toilet. It could have died in the name of 'sustainable' fishing, a phrase that has about as much meaning as 'compassionate conservatism' or 'Brexit benefit.'
And yet our wildlife groups, bless their cotton socks, continue to believe in the power of polite petition and international cooperation. They write letters. They stage vigils. They tweet about 'meaningful change.' They do everything except the one thing that would actually work: stop eating fish. Stop subsidising the fishing industry. Stop pretending that the ocean is an infinite resource. But that would be difficult. That would require personal sacrifice. That would mean admitting that our convenience culture is built on corpses. And we can't have that, can we?
Meanwhile, the whale is dead. It is floating, bloated, a stiff-eyed monument to our collective failure. The British government will issue a statement expressing 'deep concern.' The Danish government will do the same. The fishing industry will promise to 'review its practices.' And then, next week, another whale will die. And the week after that. And the week after that. Until there are no more whales, at which point we will finally have solved the problem of whale deaths. Well done, humanity. Another crisis resolved through sheer force of doing absolutely nothing.
I'm going to have a gin. Neat. No tonic. The tonic is a lie, just like the promise that we can have our fish and save the whales too. Cheers.
