From the sodden, gin-slicked corner of the BBC's disaster desk, I bring you the news that the apocalypse has finally arrived in La Guaira, Venezuela, and it's brought along a hurricane for good measure. The BBC, in its infinite, beige wisdom, has dispatched a team of journalists to 'cover the devastation.' What they've discovered, of course, is that devastation is rather like a bad curry: it looks awful, smells worse, and leaves everyone wishing they'd stayed in bed.
I've been watching the coverage from my post in a Heathrow departure lounge, the only place where the gin flows freely and the indignation flows even freer. The BBC's reporter, a man whose name I've already forgotten but whose haircut screams 'I've never been to a place without a Pret,' is standing in front of a collapsed building, telling us that 'the situation is dire.' Dire? My dear fellow, dire is when the G&T runs out at 10,000 feet. This is something else entirely.
Let's get one thing straight: the British journalist is an endangered species, a creature that thrives on chaos and expense accounts. The BBC sent one of its finest: a man who probably owns a cagoule and calls himself 'an adventurer.' He's standing there, microphone in hand, looking for all the world like a lost geography teacher. The locals, meanwhile, are wading through mud that resembles a melted Dairy Milk bar, and the reporter is asking them how they 'feel.' How do you think they feel, you magnificent numpty? They feel like their house is a pile of rubble and their cat is somewhere in a drainage ditch.
The BBC's coverage is the epitome of Britishness: polite, slightly confused, and thoroughly inadequate. They're bringing us 'frontline truths' as if truth were a thing you could package and sell at Waitrose. The truth is that La Guaira is a mess, and the British journalists are there to gawk, to file their reports, and to get back to London in time for the weekend. The devastation is real, but the coverage is a performance. It's a theatre of suffering with a British accent.
But let's not be too harsh. At least the BBC is there, unlike the rest of the British press, which is busy chasing down stories about reality TV stars and whether a Greggs sausage roll constitutes a 'dinner.' The BBC's reporters are at least pretending to care, which is more than I can say for the government, which is probably debating the finer points of Brexit while Venezuela drowns.
So here's to the British journalists on the frontline, delivering truths that are as slippery as a wet eel. Here's to the gin that keeps me sane, and to the sheer gall of reporting on catastrophe from the comfort of a hotel room. The devastation in La Guaira is a tragedy, but the coverage is a farce. And in this topsy-turvy world, the farce is the only thing we can truly rely on.
