Oh, the tragic irony. One goes to the Dominican Republic to escape the grey drizzle of a British summer, only to find oneself roasted to a perfect, pink-mottled crisp. News has reached this gin-soaked desk that a British tourist has perished in a luxury resort fire, prompting our ever-vigilant Foreign Office to issue a travel alert. Because nothing says 'government competence' like a sternly worded PDF after someone has already been cremated against their will.
Details remain, as ever, frustratingly opaque. The fire, described by management as a 'small, contained incident' that somehow consumed a entire wing of a five-star hotel, has left one soul charbroiled and countless others contemplating the existential terror of a holiday from which there is no return. The resort, let's call it 'Club Med-Inferno', is currently refusing comment, presumably because their PR team is busy crafting a statement about 'enhanced safety protocols' that will be a monument to hollow corporate jargon.
Let us consider the victim, the true star of this macabre theatre. A name is yet to be released, for which we can be grateful. It allows us to imagine a person of such profound ordinariness that they were destined for a quiet life. Perhaps they were a middle manager from Slough, someone whose greatest risk before this was ordering a second glass of cheap Chardonnay at the All Inclusive Bar. They came to the DR for sun, for sea, for a brief respite from the crushing banality of their existence. Instead, they got a fiery apotheosis, a departure so spectacular it would make a Viking funeral look like a soggy barbecue.
The British government, in its infinite wisdom, has responded with the alacrity of a sloth on Quaaludes. A travel alert has been issued. Yes, an alert. Because nothing says 'we care' like a generic warning to 'stay vigilant' and 'follow local advice' while your compatriots are being flown back in sad, odourless plastic bags. One can almost hear the mandarins at the Foreign Office congratulating themselves on a job well done: 'We've put it on the website, Johnson. Crack open the sherry.'
But let us not forget the real victims: the travel journalists. Those poor souls now have to rewrite their 'Top 10 Safety Tips for Dominican Republic' articles. The headlines will writhe in the digital graveyard: 'Is it safe to go?' will be followed by 'Five ways to survive a resort fire' and eventually, 'Dominican Republic: The ultimate guide to not being incinerated.'
And for what? A holiday. An escape. We spend 11 months of the year dreaming of that one week where we can lie comatose by a pool, slathered in SPF 50 and cheap pina coladas. We ignore the warnings, the political instability, the dodgy wiring, the fact that the fire extinguisher is probably filled with confetti. Because we're British. We queue. We complain about the weather. And when we die abroad, we do it with a stiff upper lip and a half-finished crime novel on our sun lounger.
So raise a glass, dear reader. A toast to the fallen tourist, to the bravery of the fire services, to the Foreign Office's relentless mediocrity. And a final, gin-slicked prayer that your next holiday doesn't end with you being the main course at an impromptu rotisserie. Stay safe out there. Or don't. After all, it's the uncertainty that makes life worth living. Or ending.
