Denmark, that quaint Nordic paradise of pickled herring and melancholy, has found itself host to an uninvited guest of gargantuan proportions. A dead whale, bloated and pungent, has been towed ashore, and who should come waddling to the scene but a gaggle of British marine scientists, brandishing scalpels and clipboards with the fervour of vikings discovering a new land to pillage. The cerulean carcass, a monument to nature's indifference, now lies beached like a bureaucratic memorandum, awaiting the probing ministrations of our finest academic ghouls.
Dr. Algernon Pothering-Buttocks, a man whose beard contains more plankton than the North Sea, declared, 'This is a magnificent opportunity to understand the mysteries of cetacean decomposition.' Mysteries indeed.
One might say the only mystery is why a creature of such majesty chose to expire within sniffing distance of a nation famous for its indecipherable pastries. The autopsy promises to be a symphony of gore and grey matter, a veritable feast for the senses if your senses happen to be attuned to the perfume of putrefaction. The local populace, initially horrified, have now set up souvenir stalls selling 'Whale Autopsy' snowglobes and commemorative teaspoons.
Meanwhile, the British team, funded by your licence fee, no doubt, are arguing over who gets to keep the liver. It's a spectacle of scientific inquiry that would make Darwin weep into his brandy. But worry not, dear reader, for in this age of austerity and Brexit, it's comforting to know that our tax pounds are being spent on the dissection of a fish the size of a submarine.
Soon, we shall know the whale's last meal, its preferred brand of krill, and perhaps, if we're lucky, its opinion on the Common Fisheries Policy. Until then, I'll be at the airport bar, toasting the glorious absurdity of it all with a gin that tastes faintly of ambergris and despair.
