In a development that has surely made Her Majesty's Government swell with something resembling pride (or perhaps just gin-induced flatulence), a platoon of plucky British cavers has descended upon the Lao People's Democratic Republic to assist in the search for two missing souls swallowed by the gaping maw of a limestone behemoth. Yes, dear reader, while you were fretting about the price of avocado toast, a crack team of spelunking specialists was strapping on headlamps and doing the sort of thing that makes you wonder why we ever bothered inventing the internet.
The missing duo, whose identities remain shrouded in the sort of mystery that sells newspapers (congratulations, you bought one), have been entombed in the Tham Nam Lot cave system for days. Enter stage left: the British Cave Rescue Council, a collection of individuals whose idea of a relaxing weekend involves crawling through mud in the dark, hoping not to meet a very large spider. These are people who look at a hole in the ground and think, 'Yes, that's where I belong.' They are lauded, rightly, as experts. Because when it comes to finding people in wet, dark, terrifying places, nobody does it quite like the British. We've had centuries of practice, what with our damp climate and collective national psyche.
The operation, conducted with the sort of quiet efficiency that makes you proud to be British (or at least grateful you're not the one in the cave), has been praised by local authorities. 'Their expertise is invaluable,' said a Lao official, no doubt while dabbing a bead of sweat from his brow and wondering if the British had brought any biscuits. The rescue team, equipped with the latest in high-tech gear and a stiff upper lip, is navigating the labyrinthine passages with the sort of calm that suggests they do this sort of thing every Tuesday.
Meanwhile, back in the land of Brexit and bottomless brunch, the news was met with a collective shrug of 'typical British pluck.' The Prime Minister, presumably too busy taking selfies with photocopiers, issued a statement that was as bland as a digestive biscuit. 'Our thoughts are with the rescue team and the missing.' Yes, thank you, Prime Minister, for that warm, moist blanket of platitude. One can only imagine what would happen if you actually had to do something, like, say, rescue someone from a cave. You'd probably form a committee.
But let us not be churlish. This is a story of human courage, of the indomitable spirit of exploration, and of the fact that somewhere, someone is having a much worse day than you. The missing pair, whose names we shall not use for fear of jinxing the universe, are relying on the type of people who have maps of the underground etched into their souls. They are the unsung heroes of the modern age, the ones who eschew the lure of Twitter likes for the cold embrace of a stalactite.
As the world holds its breath, the British team continues its methodical search, no doubt pausing only for a flask of tea and a whispered 'Keep calm and carry on.' They are the embodiment of a nation that once ruled the waves and now rules the caves. It's a softer imperialism, but imperialism nonetheless.
In conclusion, if you're ever lost in a cave, pray for a British caver. If you're lost in a political debate, pray for a gin and tonic. And if you're the Prime Minister, stay in your lane and let the professionals do the actual rescuing.
