The Maltese archipelago, a place where the concept of 'safety distance' is apparently as mythical as a sober accountant, has done it again. In a stunningly predictable turn of events, yet another fireworks factory has decided to emulate its product, detonating with a ferocity that would make a Krakatoa volcano blush. Yes, dear readers, Malta's thriving 'boom industry' has once more proven that gunpowder and casual indifference to Health and Safety regulations are a match made in heaven, or at least in a very, very loud suburb.
Initial reports, scrambled together by men in shades of khaki who were definitely not sipping tea moments before, indicate that the British government, in a fit of what can only be described as 'colonial nostalgia with a twist of PR', has placed its 'disaster response team' on standby. This elite unit, rumoured to be comprised of three unpaid interns with a first-aid kit and a poster of the Queen, are now poised to 'assist' the Maltese authorities. Because nothing says 'competent international aid' like a team whose primary qualification is a vague sense of having seen a disaster movie once.
But let us, for a moment, ignore the official fog of polite non-urgency and consider the sheer, glorious absurdity of this whole situation. Malta, a nation that has elevated the fireworks display to a form of high art scored by constant, deafening explosions, has a factory blow up. 'Shock,' says everyone, as they then ask if the show later tonight is still on. And Britain? Britain, with its proud history of sending 'response teams' to places that have just suffered a calamity, which then spend most of their time recording everything for a very detailed PowerPoint presentation, is 'on standby'.
One can imagine the scene at the Foreign Office. A civil servant, sweat beading on his brow, picks up a red phone. 'Sir, Malta's exploded. Again.' A long pause. 'Right. Standby the standby team. And someone get the kettle on.' The response team, hidden somewhere in a disused hangar in Gloucestershire, springs into action. This action primarily consists of checking their portable chargers are full and arguing over who gets to hold the official clipboard.
The Maltese, to their credit, are likely already sifting through the debris with a sort of weary, experienced resignation. They've been at this fireworks lark for centuries. A little factory explosion? Merely a Tuesday. But the British response team, with its state-of-the-art stand-by equipment, will arrive, assess the situation from behind a pair of very sensible binoculars, and then file a three-hundred-page report recommending that maybe, just maybe, storing thousands of kilos of unstable chemicals next to a primary school is a suboptimal arrangement. The report will be accepted, then filed next to previous reports on the same topic, dating back to 1963.
And what of the actual explosion? The human cost, the shattered homes, the ringing ears? These are mere details, background noise to the grand theatre of international disaster management. Our thoughts are, of course, with the victims. But let’s not pretend this isn't also a magnificent case study in how to respond to an emergency by doing the absolute minimum required to appear concerned. 'On standby.' It's the British motto. It’s what we do best. We stand by, we look concerned, and we wait for someone else to fix the mess, all while polishing our very own, very useless, disaster response badge.
So here is to the Maltese, may their fireworks continue to light the sky (but perhaps from a slightly safer distance). And here is to our British response team, currently on standby, ready to deploy their expert level of non-intervention at a moment's notice, proving once again that in the grand circus of global crisis, Britain is always happy to provide the clown car.
