In a move that has left international observers both baffled and mildly impressed, His Majesty's Government has announced a package of emergency aid for Venezuela following the earthquake that, as of last count, has claimed 235 souls. The death toll, we are told, continues to rise like a bad soufflé in a faulty oven.
The British response, cobbled together with the speed of a civil servant reaching for a biscuit before the tin is empty, includes tents, water purification tablets, and a team of search and rescue experts who have just finished a particularly gruelling shift at the local branch of Waitrose. "We stand with the people of Venezuela in their hour of need," declared a Foreign Office spokesperson, managing to keep a straight face while saying something so profoundly obvious it should be printed on a tea towel.
Meanwhile, in Caracas, President Maduro has reportedly blamed the earthquake on "imperialist fracking" and promised to launch a full investigation into the tectonic plates' political affiliations. The fact that the British aid, when it arrives, will likely be taxed at 57% under the country's current economic policies has not been lost on the quivering residents of the capital, who are now queueing for both earthquake relief and a decent exchange rate.
One cannot help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of this situation. Here we have a nation that cannot currently afford to heat its own hospitals or fix its own potholes sending help to a country that has, until recently, been the poster child for resource-rich mismanagement. It is like watching a man drowning in a puddle throw a lifebuoy to someone drowning in the Thames. Splendidly British, really.
As the death toll climbs, so too does the gin consumption at the Foreign Office. I can picture them now, huddled over maps and spreadsheets, measuring the impact of this tragedy in column inches and moral superiority. It is all so predictable, so beautifully, heartbreakingly predictable.
But let us not be entirely cynical. Perhaps there is a genuine desire to help, a flicker of humanity in the cold machinery of state. Or perhaps it is just the lingering guilt of colonialism, dressed up in hi-vis jackets and carrying supply crates. Either way, the people of Venezuela are about to receive a crash course in British efficiency, which is to say they will be offered a cup of tea and a weather forecast before being left to their own devices.
My sources tell me that the aid package was originally intended for a minor tremor in Rutland, but a clerical error led to it being dispatched to South America. "It was the work experience lad's fault," confided a Whitehall insider. "He got Venezuela and Veneto mixed up. Still, better than sending it to Venice, I suppose."
And so, as the earth continues to shudder and the numbers rise, Britain stands ready to help, united in a shared sense of bewildered compassion. The gin is chilled. The speeches are written. The aid is on its way. Let us raise a toast to the fallen, and to the bizarre, circuitous paths of international diplomacy.
