Blighty's bleeding hearts have finally found a cause worthy of their Metrocards. Fifty souls, parched to oblivion in the Sahara, after a lorry decided to take a permanent siesta. The UN is wringing its hands, the Red Cross is unpacking its kneepads, and our own aid agencies are mobilising water relief with the urgency of a man late for afternoon tea.
Let's paint the picture: a lorry, probably overloaded with hope and desperation, breaks down in the middle of the world's most inconvenient oven. The driver, presumably a graduate of the 'It'll Be Fine' school of mechanics, abandons ship. The passengers, trapped in a metal coffin under a sun that clearly has it in for them, slowly bake. Fifty of them, gone. Not with a bang, but with a whimper and a crackly radio signal.
Now enter the British aid agencies, stage left, clutching water bottles and moral superiority. They're mobilising, they say. Well, good for them. Because nothing says 'swift response' like a committee meeting to discuss the colour of the water containers. I'd like to see them do it in a desert, with only gin for company. But no, they'll send in the experts, the ones with clipboards and degrees in dehydration.
The tragedy is real, of course. Fifty families just got a call they'll never forget. But the theatre of relief, the grandstanding, the 'look at us, we're helping' – it's enough to make a man drink. And I would, but the gin's run out, and the nearest off-licence is 500 miles of sand away.
Meanwhile, the world moves on. Another headline, another hashtag. The Sahara doesn't care. It's been killing things long before we invented charity. And it'll keep killing, long after we've all gone back to worrying about our broadband speeds.
So yes, mobilise the water. Send the planes. Drop the bottles like confetti at a funeral. But remember: for every liter you deliver, the desert is already planning its next move. It's got all the time in the world. We've got deadlines.
