Well, well, well. If it isn’t Montreal, the city that brought us poutine, Cirque du Soleil, and now, apparently, a shooting gallery. Three souls have been permanently checked out of the hotel of life, and the British Consulate, in its infinite wisdom, has issued a travel advisory. Because nothing says “we care” quite like a generic warning that could double as a caption for a mugshot.
Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t blame the victims. I blame the universe for its relentless commitment to irony. The city that hosts the Just for Laughs comedy festival is now a crime scene. Ha bloody ha. The bullet casings will be the new souvenir, I suppose.
The police, bless their cotton socks, are “investigating”. That’s officialese for “we have no idea what happened, but we’ll tell you it’s isolated so you don’t panic”. But panic is the only sensible response when the British Consulate gets involved. Their advice? “Exercise caution.” Yes, because when you’re caught in a crossfire, the first thing you think is, “I must be careful not to slip on a maple leaf.” They might as well tell you to pack an umbrella in a hurricane.
But let’s dig deeper, because this is not just a story about bullets and bodies. This is a story about the absurdity of modern travel. We live in a world where you can be killed while buying a bagel, and the official response is a pamphlet. The British Consulate’s website probably has a charming section on “Local Customs” that now includes “ducking for cover”.
And what of the gunman? We don’t know who he is, but I guarantee he will be labelled a “lone wolf”. Because that’s what we do. We isolate the violence, sanitise it, and then package it as a “tragic event”. We never ask why the wolf went lone in the first place. Maybe he was just tired of the poutine hype. I’m joking, obviously. But that’s the point: we joke because the alternative is weeping.
Three people dead. The news cycle will move on. The consulate will update its webpage. And the streets of Montreal will continue to smell of French fries and fear. But let me tell you this: no travel advisory will protect you from the absurdity of existence. The only caution worth exercising is the caution of not expecting sense from a senseless world.
So, as I drain my gin (Gordons, of course, because I’m a patriot), I raise a glass to the three who won’t be drinking anything anymore. And to the British consulate: next time, try sending thoughts and prayers via a carrier pigeon. It would be equally useless and far more poetic.
