In a development that could only be scripted by a committee of hallucinating gibbons, the Caracas Country Club, once a bastion of oligarchic leisure where the elite would gather to discuss the finer points of oppression over canapés, has been forcibly converted into a makeshift hospital. The British aid teams, bless their NHS-trained cottons, are on standby like nervous nannies at a toddler’s tea party. One can only imagine the triage: 'Sir, your tennis elbow will have to wait.
There's a gentleman with a bullet wound in the nineteenth hole.' The absurdity is so thick you could cut it with a machete, which, given the neighbourhood, is likely the only surgical instrument available. The club’s wine cellar, now a paediatric ward, offers a delightful '23 Bordeaux with your Lemsip.
The irony is not lost on the British, who specialise in standing by with a stiff upper lip and a lukewarm cup of Typhoo. As the vultures circle and the oligarchs flee, one thing is certain: the only thing more dangerous than a Venezuelan power struggle is a British aid worker with a broken kettle.
