The latest dispatch from the crumbling edges of modern civilisation: a building in Caracas has decided to revert to its component molecules ahead of schedule, sparking fears of mass casualties. The structure, apparently bored with standing upright, chose to adopt a more horizontal lifestyle. As rescue teams scramble through the rubble like demented ants at a picnic, back in Blighty, our emergency services are standing by with enough flasks of tea and stiff upper lips to rebuild Hadrian's Wall.
Let us pause to admire the beautiful symmetry of this tragedy. A country with more oil than sense, yet somehow its buildings have the structural integrity of a wet digestive biscuit. Meanwhile, Britain sits ready to deploy its finest: men and women who could rescue a kitten from a tree while simultaneously criticising the tree's arboreal posture. Our rescue teams are the best in the world. They've trained for this. They've got the sniffer dogs, the heat sensors, the ability to drink warm beer and remain optimistic.
The building in question was apparently a popular spot for locals to ignore building regulations. It fell over like a drunken MP at a party conference. Now, we have the usual circus: journalists jostling for the best angle on human misery, politicians promising thoughts and prayers (the cheapest currency in the universe), and the British government holding a press conference to announce that they are 'monitoring the situation closely.' Translation: we're watching it on TV like everyone else, but with more ministerial paperwork.
But let's dig deeper into this ontological collapse. Here in London, the Housing Minister was seen clutching a sheaf of documents that looked suspiciously like a guide to blaming the previous government. Meanwhile, a spokesperson for the Prime Minister said, 'Our thoughts are with the people of Venezuela at this difficult time.' These thoughts are presumably non-transferable and cannot be exchanged for medicine, shelter, or a decent internet connection.
I ask you: what is the point of a nation having a stiff upper lip if it cannot be deployed in actual crisis? We have rescue teams ready to go. They are packed, briefed, and probably already complaining about the airline's gin selection. Yet we wait. We wait for the Venezuelan government to officially request assistance. This is diplomatic protocol. It is also, if I may be so bold, absolute bollocks. When the Titanic was sinking, did the lifeboats wait for formal permission from the iceberg?
In the meantime, the rubble grows colder. The chances of finding survivors dwindle faster than a politician's promise. And Britain stands ready. Ready to help. Ready to watch. Ready to send a strongly worded letter of condolence. This is the great strength of this proud nation: we are the best in the world at being prepared to help, after it is too late to make a difference.
So tonight, raise a glass of cheap gin to the rescue teams who are standing by. They are the best. They are the bravest. They are just waiting for someone to give them the nod. But as we all know, the biggest risk in international aid is not the earthquake or the building collapse. It is the meeting. The form. The approval process. The endless, mind-numbing wait while people die under concrete.
This is the modern world. We have the technology to send a man to Mars, but we cannot get a rescue team to a collapsed building without three signatures and a feasibility study. My heart goes out to the victims in Caracas. My bile goes out to the systems that keep our rescuers waiting. If you need me, I'll be in the pub, staring at my phone and wondering why we bother.
