In a development that has left even the most stoic of gin drinkers reaching for a second bottle, the NHS has dispatched a team of trauma specialists to Venezuela. Their mission: to treat the panic attacks and fractures caused by the recent earthquake. Because nothing says ‘calm in a crisis’ like a stiff upper lip and a cup of tea, darling.
Let us paint a picture, shall we? Imagine the scene: Caracas, rubble everywhere, the ground still dancing a jig that no one asked for. And into this maelstrom of misery stride the NHS doctors, clutching their lucky stethoscopes and looking for all the world like they’ve just stepped out of a Barbara Pym novel. They’ve come to share their expertise on handling trauma. Because, obviously, the Venezuelans have never seen a disaster before.
‘Right then, the first thing you have realise is that panic is simply unacceptable,’ booms the lead consultant, Dr. Alistair Frothingham-Smythe, as he surveys the wreckage. ‘We recommend a nice cup of chamomile tea and a sit down. Unless there’s an aftershock, in which case, do try to be a bit more orderly about the screaming.’
Isn’t it magnificent? The utter, breathtaking condescension of it all. Here we have a nation that has endured more political turmoil than a reality TV star’s diary, and we send them a team of NHS doctors to teach them how to have a good panic attack. It’s like bringing a fork to a knife fight, or a sociology professor to a demolition derby.
The official line, trotted out by a press officer who probably communicates via carrier pigeon, is that ‘the UK stands in solidarity with the people of Venezuela’. Solidarity! A word that has been bludgeoned into meaninglessness. What solidarity looks like here is a bunch of Brits standing around looking grave while the locals get on with the business of being terrified.
And let us not forget the fractures. Oh yes, the earthquake has left many with broken bones. But fear not: our NHS team is on hand to apply splints and give stern lectures about the importance of not standing under falling masonry. ‘A fracture is a fracture, whether it happens in Caracas or Croydon,’ explains Dr. Frothingham-Smythe, as if he has just invented the concept of gravity. ‘But here we must be extra vigilant. The aftershocks can cause unexpected falls. So we recommend that you stay seated, ideally in a location that is not directly beneath a dislodged chandelier.’
This is the kind of advice that makes you want to weep into your Gordon’s. It is the epitome of the British approach to disaster: offer platitudes, serve tea, and pretend that everything will be fine if we just maintain a stiff upper lip. Meanwhile, the Venezuelan doctors – who have been dealing with this sort of thing for decades without the benefit of a single afternoon biscuit – are probably wondering if they can swap the NHS team for a crate of paracetamol and a functioning X-ray machine.
But let us not be too harsh. After all, the NHS is a national treasure, even if it is currently held together with duct tape and goodwill. And there is something almost endearing about the way we insist on exporting our weird little rituals to every corner of the globe. Next, we’ll be sending a team of health visitors to teach the Venezuelans how to queue properly. Or perhaps a group of volunteers to turn their crisis centres into branches of John Lewis.
In the end, though, one cannot help but feel that the only trauma being treated here is the British ego. We need to see ourselves as the wise old uncle of the world, dispensing sage advice to the less fortunate. And so we smile benignly, pat a few heads, and mutter ‘there, there’ as the earth continues to rumble. Cheers, chaps. That’ll be a trillion in aid, please.
