In a tragicomic turn of events that has sent shockwaves through the world of airborne leisure and provided a field day for actuaries, a British national has reportedly met his maker mid-flight over the sun-drenched, olive-dotted landscapes of Spain. The man, whose name has been withheld pending the inevitable deluge of dignity, was engaged in the noble pursuit of paragliding, an activity that involves strapping oneself to a glorified bin bag and hurling oneself off a cliff in the vague hope that the wind will be feeling charitable. He was not, as it turns out, feeling particularly charitable that day.
Details remain as sketchy as a parliamentary expenses claim, but the incident has prompted the Foreign Office, a body not typically known for its alacrity in matters of fun, to issue a ‘safety notice’. This is the bureaucratic equivalent of a parent sighing heavily and saying ‘I told you so’ after you’ve stuck a fork in a toaster. The notice, presumably written on parchment made from the shredded CVs of failed diplomats, will likely remind Britons that the laws of physics apply with equal vigour whether you are in a council flat in Slough or a thermic column over Andalusia.
This poor soul, let us call him Nigel, because all doomed Britons in Spain are called Nigel, was probably having a right old time. He was likely feeling the wind in his hair, the sun on his face, and that special brand of smugness reserved for those who have successfully ignored the fact that they are dangling from a piece of nylon. Then, in a moment of harsh, atmospheric re-accommodation, he became intimate with terra firma at an unforgiving velocity. The details are frankly none of our business, but one assumes the impact was not subtle.
The Foreign Office notice, I suspect, will contain such pearls of wisdom as ‘check your equipment’ and ‘consider not falling out of the sky’. This is the same body that once advised travellers to pack a jumper if going to Scotland. Their concern is touching, like a toddler offering you a used tissue for your cold. The real problem, of course, is not that the Foreign Office issued a warning, but that they felt the need to. It suggests that British idiocy has reached such pandemic proportions that the only way to stem the tide of Darwin Awards is to issue state-sanctioned nagging.
One imagines the meeting at Whitehall: ‘Right, chaps, another one’s gone and done a splat in Spain. We need a notice. Something firm but with a hint of I-told-you-so.’ The result is a document that will be quietly ignored by everyone except the Daily Mail, who will use it to denounce both the EU and the deceased’s choice of insurance provider. The grieving family, meanwhile, will receive a consular visit, a bereavement leaflet, and a bill for repatriation.
What we have here is a classic example of life imitating absurdity. Man buys kite, man jumps off mountain, man becomes meat crayon. The universe shrugs. The Foreign Office issues a sternly worded memo. And somewhere, a paragliding instructor is carefully adjusting his liability insurance. The moral of the story, if there is one, is that nature does not negotiate. If you wish to fly, buy a plane ticket. If you wish to fall with style, perhaps just stay in bed. The gin is cheap and the floor is soft. I’ll drink to that.
