In a move that has left even the most jaded pyrotechnics enthusiast scrambling for a stiff gin, Malta’s premier fireworks factory has decided to demonstrate the finer points of catastrophic combustion without the inconvenience of a public holiday. The explosion, which was obligingly caught on camera by some poor sod who probably thought they’d just won the lottery, has prompted a flurry of condolence tweets from UK emergency services, who have gallantly offered to send over a few buckets of sand and a sternly worded pamphlet on health and safety. This is, after all, the cornerstone of British foreign policy in the 21st century: we may not have a functioning health service, but by God we can teach other people how to not blow themselves up.
The footage itself is a masterpiece of modern absurdity: a building that looks like it was designed by a committee of drunken elves, suddenly decides to become a geological event. Bits of what one assumes were factory are now scattered across the Mediterranean, presumably posing an existential threat to the local tuna population. Meanwhile, the Maltese authorities are no doubt holding an emergency meeting to discuss the profound implications of this event, likely concluding that the only sensible course of action is to ban everything except for maybe the gentle wafting of a scented candle.
The UK’s offer of aid is, of course, a masterstroke of diplomatic theatre. Downing Street has dispatched a crack team of bureaucrats armed with clipboards and a deep-seated disdain for any activity that involves actual danger. They will arrive in Valletta to inspect the debris, take notes, and then file a report that will be promptly lost in a filing cabinet somewhere in Whitehall.
Because that’s what we do: we don’t solve problems, we generate paperwork for them. And so, as the dust settles on this latest example of what happens when you let the public have nice things, we can only marvel at the sheer absurdity of it all. A fireworks factory explodes, a nation watches, and the UK sends its finest paper pushers to the rescue.
It’s almost poetic, in a head-in-hands, giggling-uncontrollably sort of way.
