In a twist so absurd it could only be written by a committee of drunken mandarins, British rescue teams have been dispatched to Venezuela to lead a silent search for survivors. Silent, you see. Because nothing says 'international aid' quite like creeping through the jungle like a bunch of SAS impersonators on a day trip to B&Q.
The chaos spreads faster than a rumour in a Westminster tearoom. Venezuela, a country already collapsed into a caricature of itself, now plays host to our finest, gliding through the undergrowth with the hushed intensity of librarians at a porn convention. They carry whispers instead of loudhailers. They gesture with tact. They are, in short, utterly, gloriously British.
I imagine the scene: a desperate mother, child in arms, stumbling through the mud. Along comes a rescuer in a hi-vis jacket, impeccably polite. 'Excuse me, terribly sorry to bother you, but would you mind terribly if we saved you?' She stares, baffled. He offers a cup of tea. It is, after all, the only hope we have left.
Meanwhile, the world watches and tuts. The Venezuelan government, a regime so incompetent it makes the Keystone Cops look like the SAS, has apparently welcomed this silent intervention. Why not? They can't hear it. The noise of their own collapse drowns out everything.
This is the new colonialism. Not with guns and Bibles, but with whispered platitudes and a strong sense of quiet dignity. We are not invading. We are 'assisting'. We are not here to drill for oil. We are here to gently pat backs and murmur 'there, there'.
And who is leading this charge? A man named Nigel, I am told, who once managed a branch of Waitrose. He is no stranger to chaos. He once faced down a customer over a mislabeled artichoke. He is, by all accounts, a hero.
The survivors, if they exist, will be treated to a very British rescue. They will be given blankets from M&S. They will be offered Hobnobs. They will be transported to safety on a bus that still runs on time.
But mark my words. This is not a rescue. This is a performance. A piece of theatre designed to remind us that, in a world of American bravado and Russian menace, Britain still has a role. We are the quiet ones. The ones who apologise for saving your life. The ones who will gently usher you into a lifeboat while murmuring about the weather.
Chaos spreads. But so does tea. And in the end, one of those things will save us.
