New York City. The city that never sleeps, unless you count the permanent coma induced by its extortionate rent prices and the toxic fumes of its infernal traffic. Today, however, the Big Apple decided to add a touch of pyrotechnics to its usual symphony of honking and harassment. A car exploded. A glorious, fireball-tastic, death-defying kaboom that sent pedestrians scattering like startled pigeons in a public park. ‘Everybody back up!’ someone screamed, as if anyone needed encouragement to flee a burning Honda Civic.
Now, before you reach for your smelling salts, let me reassure you: no British citizens were harmed. The Foreign Office has confirmed this with the sort of smug relief usually reserved for discovering a branch of Pret a Manger at Gatwick. We can all breathe again, preferably not too close to the scene of the explosion.
The incident occurred in Manhattan, or possibly Brooklyn; the reports are as confused as a tourist trying to hail a cab during rush hour. Eyewitnesses described a ‘loud bang’ followed by ‘flames licking the air like the tongue of a disappointed god’. One man, a street vendor of dubious hot dogs, told reporters: ‘I saw it happen. One minute it was a car, the next minute it was a taco truck’s worst nightmare.’ His cart remained untouched. The American dream endures.
Authorities are investigating. This is bureaucrat-speak for ‘we have absolutely no idea what caused it, so let’s blame faulty wiring or alien technology’. The NYPD, resplendent in their bulletproof vests and doughnut-stained ties, have cordoned off the area. They are taking statements from everyone within a five-block radius, including a poodle and a man dressed as the Statue of Liberty. The poodle’s account remains unverified.
Let us pause to consider the sheer pointlessness of this event. A car exploded. It did not change the political landscape, it did not cure cancer, it did not even improve the traffic. It was a moment of pure, uncut chaos, a reminder that the universe is fundamentally indifferent to our commute. And yet, here we are, reporting it with the gravitas of a royal birth. The news cycle: a car explodes and it is LIVE. A child learns to read: that is not news. We have our priorities in order.
But worry not, dear reader. The most important fact has been established: no British casualties. Our national honour remains intact. We can continue to look down on American gun laws and dental hygiene from the safety of our island, where the most explosive thing in the street is a fox rummaging through a bin. Though, knowing our luck, that bin could be a disguised IRA bomb. But that’s a different column.
In summary: a car went boom, nobody British died, and the world continues its slow spiral into absurdity. I’m off to find a gin. Preferably one that hasn’t exploded.
