ATHENS, GREECE. The sky is the colour of a second-rate sherry and the air tastes of charcoal and despair. Firefighters, a breed of men who look at an inferno and see a job, are currently locked in a death-struggle with a Greek wildfire that has decided to treat the Peloponnese as its personal crematorium. British crews, bless their soggy hearts, have been deployed. Because nothing says solidarity like sending a nation that panics at a flake of snow to fight a blaze that could melt the grin off a gargoyle.
The EU, that grand bazaar of bureaucratic hand-wringing, has called for solidarity. Which in Brussels-speak means: someone else do the heavy lifting while we pass a strongly worded resolution. And who answers the call? Britain. Still technically EU-adjacent and still constitutionally incapable of ignoring a cry for help, even if it means trading our umbrellas for hoses. We arrive with our stiff upper lips and our warm beer, ready to hose down Mount Olympus itself if necessary.
The Greeks, to their credit, are handling this with the stoic fatalism of a people who invented tragedy. They watch their olive groves turn to charcoal and shrug. ‘It is the will of Zeus,’ they mutter, before lighting another cigarette. Meanwhile, the tourists are evacuated with the speed of a concierge spotting a non-tipping American. The scene at the airport is one of organised chaos: screaming children, sunburnt adults, and a disturbing shortage of duty-free gin.
But let us not forget the real heroes. Not the firefighters, no, they are merely foot soldiers in this war. No, the real heroes are the politicians. They stand on balconies, hair perfectly coiffed, making statements about unprecedented challenges and European values. They promise aid. They promise action. They promise to look very concerned for the cameras. And then they go back inside for a glass of something expensive.
This wildfire, this beast, this tap-dancing apocalypse, is a reminder that nature does not care about your trade deals or your Facebook status. It is a primal scream in a world of quiet desperation. And as the British crews join the fray, I find myself raising a glass of warm gin to the absurdity of it all. To the firefighters, who are probably thinking about their pensions. To the EU, which is thinking about its image. And to the Greeks, who are thinking about rebuilding. Again.
Because that is what we do. We fight. We lose. We fight again. And somewhere between the ash and the acronyms, we find a reason to keep going. Or at least a reason to have another drink.
Biff Thistlethwaite, on the front line, where the only thing hotter than the fire is the bullshit.
