In a breathtaking display of what happens when you strap a glorified bedsheet to your back and leap off a cliff, a British man has met his maker on the sun-baked slopes of Spain. The Foreign Office, never ones to let a perfectly good tragedy go without a tepid press release, have confirmed they are 'liaising' with Spanish authorities. This is diplomatic speak for 'we've sent an intern to check if he had travel insurance.'
The deceased, whose name shall remain a mystery until his family have been informed and a distant cousin in Somerset has had a good cry, was reportedly an experienced paraglider. Experienced, as it turns out, is a relative term. Much like 'safe' is relative to 'I'm going to throw myself off a mountain.'
Witnesses described a scene of serene beauty: the gentle Mediterranean breeze, the breathtaking vista of the Costa del Sol, and then a sudden, rather undignified plummet. It seems the gentleman discovered that gravity, unlike British Rail, doesn't issue refunds for cancelled flights. He hit the ground with a thud that probably sounded a lot like the collective groan of the nation's tabloid editors, who now have to fill column inches with something other than Brexit.
The Foreign Office statement, delivered with all the passion of a man reading the terms and conditions of a timeshare contract, assures us that they are 'providing support.' This support, one imagines, consists of a leaflet on 'How to Die Abroad: A Guide to Unpleasantness in the Sun' and possibly a strong cup of tea. Diplomatic support, after all, has never been about actually doing anything useful. It's about looking concerned and wearing a very sombre tie.
Spain, for its part, is no stranger to British tourists meeting their end in creatively stupid ways. From drowning in swimming pools while drunk to falling off balconies while drunker, the British holidaymaker has elevated accidental death to an art form. Paragliding is merely the latest addition to this proud tradition of proving Darwin right, one holiday at a time.
Let us pause to reflect on the sheer folly of it all. Here was a man, presumably in possession of a functioning brain, who strapped himself to a parachute designed for a genre of aviation that is basically 'falling, but slower.' He launched himself into the air, trusting that a few threads and some cleverly angled fabric would defy the entire history of physics. It didn't. And now he is a cautionary tale, a headline, and a very expensive repatriation bill.
As the Spanish authorities sift through the wreckage and the British press simulates a degree of concern they usually reserve for royal scandals, we are left with the uncomfortable truth that life is fragile and that some people really need a hobby that doesn't involve terminal velocities. The Foreign Office will continue to 'liaise', which is Latin for 'do nothing of consequence.' The family will grieve. And somewhere, a paragliding instructor is updating his liability waiver.
Fly high, brave Briton. Or rather, don't. The ground has a 100% success rate.
