The Golden State is having a bit of a meltdown. California, that sun-drenched paradise of avocados and existential dread, is once again on fire. Wildfires, those uninvited guests at the barbecue of life, are currently licking at the edges of major highways, causing precisely the sort of chaos that makes British observers feel both appalled and oddly superior.
Our evacuation experts are on standby. Yes, those same chaps who can coordinate the orderly departure of 50,000 people from a soggy Glastonbury field whilst maintaining a polite queue for the portaloos are now poised to lend their services. One can only imagine the scene: a man in a tweed jacket, holding a clipboard, tutting at the lack of a proper evacuation plan. “I say, have you considered a designated meeting point? Perhaps by the burning shrubbery?”
Meanwhile, Californians are doing what they do best: filming the apocalypse on their phones and posting it to Instagram with a hashtag. #FireSzn. The highways are jammed with cars, their horns blaring a symphony of despair. Our experts, presumably sipping gin from a thermos, are calculating the most efficient route to safety, factoring in tea breaks.
The cause of these fires, as ever, is a cocktail of drought, wind, and human stupidity. Possibly a dropped cigarette, possibly a spark from a poorly maintained vehicle, possibly the sheer hubris of building a city in a desert. But no matter. The British are here. They will bring order, a stiff upper lip, and a profound sense of disapproval.
So as the flames dance dangerously close to the freeway, remember this: chaos is merely a temporary inconvenience for the British evacuation expert. They have faced worse. They have faced the queues at Heathrow. California, take note. Your salvation comes in the form of a man who pronounces ‘garage’ with a soft ‘g’.
