In a development that has sent shockwaves through the herpetological community and left the Foreign Office scrambling for its most solemn vocabulary, a Lebanese turtle conservationist has been killed in an Israeli air strike. The man, whose name will now be immortalised in the annals of both marine biology and geopolitical tragedy, was apparently tending to his shelled charges when the heavens opened with something rather heavier than rain.
Let us pause for a moment to consider the sheer absurdist poetry of this. A man whose life's work was to protect creatures that carry their homes on their backs, killed by a bomb that destroys every home in its vicinity. The universe, ladies and gentlemen, has a sense of humour that would make Groucho Marx blanch.
Now, enter the UK government, stage left, clutching its pearls with the practiced indignation of a maiden aunt who has just discovered a gentleman's magazine in the parlour. They have condemned the targeting of civilians, which is a bit like condemning rain for being wet, but at least it's something. The statement, no doubt crafted by a committee of over-caffeinated interns, expressed 'deep concern' and called for 'restraint'. Because that always works. Remember when we expressed 'deep concern' about the price of gin? It solved nothing.
But let's not be too harsh on the diplomats. They have a difficult job, trying to sound meaningful while saying absolutely nothing of substance. It's a bit like a mime trying to describe the colour purple. The UK government's response to this tragedy is as predictable as a sequel to a Michael Bay film: lots of noise, plenty of special effects, but ultimately, no lasting impact.
Meanwhile, the turtles, those ancient mariners of the Mediterranean, continue their eternal journey, oblivious to the machinations of humans and their aerial fireworks. They do not understand borders, religions, or the politics of resentment. They only understand the pull of the sea and the warmth of the sun. Perhaps they are the wise ones.
In the grand tradition of gonzo journalism, I must confess that I am writing this from the bar of a Heathrow airport hotel, my notebook stained with Gordon's and tonic. The television above the bar is tuned to a rolling news channel, where a correspondent with a face like a crumpled paper bag is explaining the strategic importance of the hill on which the conservationist met his end. It is an ugly business, made uglier by the sanitised language of military briefings.
So here's to the turtle man, whoever he was. A man who tried to save the world, one reptile at a time. And here's to the turtles, who will outlive us all, crawling patiently towards a future that may or may not include humans. And here's to the UK government, which will issue another statement tomorrow, condemning something else, while the bombs continue to fall.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a small bottle of aviation-grade gin and a packet of stale peanuts. The free world needs me.