So the Golden State is ablaze. Again. This time, the British fire service—our very own guardians of thatched roofs and damp English summers—have been dispatched to share their expertise.
How generous. How utterly condescending. We send them advice on how to put out fires while the Romans of our age fiddle with their electric cars and avocado toast.
The footage is mesmerising: cars melting like Dali clocks, highways turned into rivers of flame. It is a vision of the future, a preview of the apocalypse that awaits a civilisation too decadent to keep its own house in order. The British, with their polite efficiency, arrive like curates at a brothel.
They offer wisdom. But what can they teach a people who have forgotten that nature does not bargain? The American West is a tinderbox of mismanagement and hubris.
They build cities in deserts and wonder why the earth rebels. Our fire service, splendid as it is, cannot teach humility. That lesson must come from the flames themselves.
So let them send their experts. Let them share their protocols. But the real fire—the one that rages in the soul of a nation that has lost its way—will not be quenched by British know-how.
It will burn until the last vestige of arrogance is consumed. Then, perhaps, they will rebuild not with concrete and hubris, but with respect for the elemental forces that made California a paradise in the first place.
