In a move that has left diplomatic circles in a state of utter befuddlement, His Majesty’s Royal Navy has dispatched a flotilla of vessels to the shores of Venezuela, ostensibly to assist in earthquake relief efforts. The same earthquake, I should note, that has apparently decided to visit Venezuela without first consulting the international community’s disaster calendar. The Navy, ever the stalwart of British pluck, has deployed HMS Argus and HMS Albion, complete with helicopters, landing craft, and a cargo hold filled with enough Marmite to sustain a small army of expats for a decade.
The official line from Whitehall is that this is a purely humanitarian mission. But let us be honest, dear reader: when has the Royal Navy ever done anything purely? The last time they ventured into Latin American waters, they were chasing pirates and drinking rum. Now they are chasing tectonic plates and drinking gin, presumably. The Ministry of Defence, in a statement so carefully worded it could have been written by a barrister on quaaludes, insists this is not a geopolitical flex. They are merely going to help. Because nothing says ‘we come in peace’ like a helicopter carrier bristling with missiles.
The British public, upon learning of this deployment, responded with a collective shrug that could be heard from Dover to John O’Groats. ‘Venezuela?’ said the average man on the street, pausing only to adjust his Union Jack pants. ‘Isn’t that where the oil comes from, before it becomes petrol and then tears?’ Indeed, the timing is curious. Venezuela, a nation with more oil than sense, is currently in the midst of a political meltdown that makes Brexit look like a well-organised village fete. The earthquake, a 7.3 magnitude shaker that has left thousands homeless, is the cherry on top of a cake made of despair and hyperinflation.
But back to the Navy. What exactly are they bringing? Aside from the aforementioned Marmite, the ships are packed with water purification systems, medical supplies, and a baffling quantity of corned beef. I can only assume the Ministry of Defence has a warehouse full of corned beef from the Falklands War that they are desperate to offload. The Royal Marines, ever keen for a scrap, are also aboard, though they have been instructed to leave their bayonets at home and instead bring copies of ‘Venezuela for Dummies’.
Critics have been quick to point out that this mission, while noble in intent, smacks of colonial nostalgia. ‘Here come the British, with their stiff upper lips and their tea, to save the day,’ sneered a spokesperson from the Latin American Solidarity Group. ‘Why don’t they just send a cheque and a nice card?’ To which the Navy responds, in the immortal words of Lord Nelson, ‘We don’t do cheques. We do ships.’
Meanwhile, in Caracas, the government has issued a statement thanking Britain for its offer. This is, of course, the same government that has been accusing Britain of imperialist meddling for the past decade. But when the earth shakes, even the most stubborn of despots learns to accept a tin of corned beef. The relief operation is expected to last several weeks, during which time the sailors will no doubt enjoy the local cuisine, inadvertently start a diplomatic incident by mistaking a national flag for a tea towel, and return home with exotic diseases and a newfound appreciation for the British weather.
As for the earthquake itself, it has been downgraded from ‘catastrophic’ to ‘manageable’ now that the British are involved. Or perhaps that’s just the gin talking. Either way, the Royal Navy sails on, a testament to the enduring truth that Britons will go anywhere, do anything, and bring their own tea. God save the King, and God help the Venezuelans.
