In a feat of heroism that makes the SAS look like a troupe of amateur dramatics, British rescue teams have, against all odds and the laws of physics, extracted a newborn baby from the teeth of a collapsed building in Venezuela. Let us pause, gentle reader, to uncork a celebratory gin and wonder at the sheer audacity of it all.
The tot, whose lungs must be made of tempered steel considering the racket they made, was found buried under what used to be a kindergarten. The building, a monument to shoddy construction and corrupt permits, decided to take a nap on its occupants. Enter our lads, the intrepid British search and rescue, who flew in faster than a politician can break a promise.
With the delicacy of a bomb disposal expert defusing a temper, they clawed through concrete and rebar, their every move a symphony of precision. Meanwhile, the world held its breath. Or rather, we held our gins and watched the drama unfold on live telly, because that's what we do now. We turn human tragedy into a spectator sport, complete with rolling news tickers and a sense of smug satisfaction that it's not happening to us.
But let's not be too cynical. This is a miracle. The child, pink and howling as any proper British subject should be, was whisked to safety with the kind of efficiency that governments only dream of when they're not busy squabbling over Brexit. The rescue teams, modest as ever, will no doubt say they were just doing their job. But we know better. They are the nobility of our age, the knights in hi-vis armour, clashing not with dragons but with shattered masonry and the ever-present spectre of bureaucratic red tape.
Now, the real question: who will care for this child? Venezuela, a nation in the throes of collapse, can barely feed its own, let alone an orphan. The baby's parents are, as of now, statistics in a tragedy. One hopes that this little scrap of humanity will find a home, perhaps in the heart of some wealthy philanthropist who sees a tax deduction in every tear. Or maybe the British government will step up and offer asylum, because nothing says 'global Britain' like adopting a baby from a disaster zone. Though they'll probably make the poor mite fill out a visa application first.
In the end, this story is a prism through which we see the best and worst of humanity. The best: the courage of the rescuers, the universal instinct to save the helpless. The worst: the systems that allowed a building to collapse, the geopolitics that leave a country unable to protect its own, and the media machine that packages tragedy into bite-sized morsels for our consumption.
But for now, let us raise a glass to the baby. May your life be long, your crib be stable, and your government be slightly less incompetent than the one that failed you. And to the rescue teams: you are the reason we still have faith in the word 'hero.' Even if you did ruin a perfectly good gin o'clock with your emotional heroics.
