In a grotesque parody of a holiday brochure, eleven British skydivers have met their maker not in a fiery ball of hubris but in the cold, wet bosom of eastern France. The aircraft, a twin-engine behemoth of questionable provenance, decided that its passengers had seen enough of the sky and promptly introduced them to terra firma at an altitude at which their parachutes became decorative accessories. The French, never ones to let a good catastrophe go uncelebrated with bureaucracy, have cordoned off the area and are likely arguing about the correct form of paperwork for such an event.
The skydivers, no doubt, had been regaling each other with tales of their invincibility moments before the aircraft discovered gravity's immutable laws. One can only imagine the final thoughts of these thrill-seekers: 'Well, this is a bit of a bother.' The plane, a vintage model that had seen better decades, apparently forgot that its role was to ferry people to the clouds, not to become one with the earth.
The investigation will undoubtedly focus on the pilot's breakfast, the phase of the moon, and whether the union representing the aircraft's bolts had issued a strike notice. Meanwhile, the families of the deceased are left to grapple with the stark reality that their loved ones died doing something they loved, which is a poor substitute for not dying at all. This reporter, nursing a gin and tonic of moderate quality, raises a glass to the absurdity of it all.
Cheers, chaps. The sky won the argument.
