In a scene that could only have been penned by a committee of sadists and Japanese steel magnates, a British expatriate was yesterday set upon by a bear at a Nippon Steel plant in Hokkaido, prompting a flurry of safety advisories that will, of course, be read by precisely nobody until the next ursine rampage. The victim, identified only as 'Nigel' by sources who clearly lacked the imagination to invent a better name, was reportedly 'startled' by a brown bear that had wandered into the facility's canteen. 'Startled' is perhaps the understatement of the year, given that the beast reportedly mistook Nigel's tweed jacket for a particularly fibrous teriyaki snack. Attending paramedics noted that the man's screams were 'impressively high-pitched for a grown male', a detail that will no doubt comfort his family.
The Foreign Office, roused from its perpetual nap, has issued a 'bear safety guide' for British workers in Japan, a document that reads like a fever dream written by a sleep-deprived intern. Key recommendations include: 'Do not run', 'Make yourself look big', and 'If attacked, curl into a ball and pray to whatever god you believe in that the beast is not a fan of Cornish pasties'. It is, I must say, a refreshing departure from the typical safety briefings which usually advise on the dangers of overpriced vending machines or the existential horror of karaoke bars.
But let us not dwell on the specifics of this singular tragedy. Let us instead bask in the glorious absurdity of a world where a British man, far from the gentle hills of Yorkshire, finds himself locked in a death embrace with a creature that has clearly never read a single John le Carré novel. The bear, for its part, is believed to have been motivated by a desperate desire for protein after a diet of discarded sushi and corporate brochures. One cannot help but sympathise with the beast. After all, who among us has not looked at a British tourist and thought, 'There but for the grace of god goes a walking Sunday roast'?
The steel plant's management, in a statement that reeked of institutional panic, assured the public that 'all necessary measures' had been taken. This, as it turns out, involved installing a single, poorly worded sign reading 'Beware of Bear' in English, a language the bear demonstrably failed to read. I propose a more direct approach: place a gin distillery on the factory floor. The lingering scent of juniper is, in my experience, a remarkably effective ursine repellent, or at the very least, it will ensure that the remaining workers face their doom with a pleasant buzz.
Meanwhile, British workers abroad have been urged to 'remain vigilant' and 'avoid sudden movements' near wooded areas. This is, of course, splendid advice for those who enjoy living in a state of perpetual, trembling fear. For the rest of us, we shall continue to wander the earth with a bottle of Gordon's in our breast pocket, ready to offer a toast to any creature, man or beast, that dares to interrupt our miserable commute from the pub to the office. After all, if a bear is going to eat you, it might as well be well-lubricated.
