In a development that has shocked precisely no one with a working grasp of geopolitics, three souls were extinguished in Montreal yesterday, their lives reduced to statistics in the eternal ledger of urban violence. British intelligence, in a display of bureaucratic solidarity that rivals a synchronised swimming team of panicked dachshunds, has graciously shared its counter-terror protocols with Canadian partners. Because nothing says 'we care' like a PDF of best practices when the bullets are still warm.
The shooting, which occurred in the heart of Montreal's Plateau district, saw two men and one woman gunned down in what police are calling a 'targeted attack'. Which is policespeak for 'we have no idea who did it, but we're quite certain it wasn't aliens'. The victims, whose names have been withheld pending notification of next of kin, join the ever-expanding pantheon of souls who went out for a bagel and never returned.
Now, I must confess I was nursing a particularly fine Hendrick's at a Heathrow departure lounge bar when this news crossed my bespoke tweed. The barman, a gentleman of Maltese extraction with eyebrows of exceptional expressiveness, remarked that the world has gone mad. I corrected him. The world has always been mad. It's just that now it's broadcasting its lunacy in 4K Ultra HD.
But let us turn our attention to the magnificent absurdity of the British response. Our intelligence services, those paragons of discretion who once kept secrets so well they forgot them themselves, have elected to 'share protocols'. These protocols, I imagine, consist of a laminated card with the instructions: '1. Look suspicious. 2. Report it. 3. Make tea.' The Canadian Mounties, a force so dashing they still wear hats that scream 'I am from the past', are no doubt delighted to receive this cutting-edge wisdom from their cousins across the pond.
I suppose I should offer some earnest reflection on the tragedy. The victims had families, dreams, and perhaps a half-finished crossword puzzle at home. Their deaths are a reminder that life is fragile, random, and utterly indifferent to your plans for the weekend. But that is the platitude of a lesser journalist. As a satirist, I am duty-bound to point out that the only predictable thing about these events is their predictability. We have built a global village where the village idiot owns a semi-automatic rifle and the village council worries about the wording of a memo.
In conclusion, three people are dead. British intelligence has sent a folder. And I am drinking gin. The world spins on its axis, a polished ball bearing in a machine that no one quite understands. To the families of the deceased, I offer my deepest sympathies. To the intelligence community, I offer a suggestion: next time, try sending a casserole. It shows more thought.
