In a move that can only be described as the geological equivalent of a sarcastic slow clap, Mother Nature has decided to remind Venezuela that yes, things can indeed get worse. An earthquake, registering a magnitude that seismologists are calling 'a proper kicking when you're down', has rippled through a nation already more unstable than a three-legged table in a hurricane.
British humanitarian aid, apparently packed in crates labelled 'Here, Have Some Stiff Upper Lips', has been deployed. The aid convoy, consisting of three Land Rovers and a man named Nigel who 'knows a bit about first aid', set off from a car park in Croydon with the kind of optimism usually reserved for people who think Brexit was a good idea.
Government officials, in a rare moment of international unity, have described the situation as 'deeply concerning' which, in diplomatic speak, translates to 'we have absolutely no idea what to do, but we'll look very serious while doing nothing'. The Venezuelan leadership, meanwhile, has blamed the earthquake on 'imperialist fracking vibrations' and 'the lingering bad vibes from the last election we definitely won'.
This tragedy comes at a particularly inconvenient time for the British media, who were just about to launch an exciting new series of articles on 'Which Kardashian Looks Most Like a Distressed Capitalist Pig?' The earthquake has rudely interrupted the news cycle with its demands for actual human empathy and disaster relief logistics.
As rescue workers dig through rubble with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for finding the last biscuit in a tin, one can't help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of it all. Here is a nation sitting on the world's largest oil reserves, yet unable to afford a can of beans. Now it's sitting on fault lines too, because evidently the universe has a sense of humour that ranges from 'mildly ironic' to 'absolutely devastating'.
The trembling earth has, at least, provided a brief respite from the ceaseless political turmoil. For a few precious seconds, everyone in Caracas forgot about hyperinflation and power cuts to focus on the more immediate concern of 'Is this bookshelf going to fall on my head?' Democracy, it turns out, is just as ineffective against tectonic plates as it is against authoritarianism.
British Foreign Office sources, speaking on condition of anonymity (because someone might recognise their voice from that one time they were on Newsnight), have confirmed that the aid package includes 'several pallets of Fortnum & Mason's finest Earl Grey' and 'a team of highly trained hedge trimmers', because nothing says humanitarian response like neatly trimmed topiaries in a disaster zone.
As I sit here, typing this report with a gin and tonic balanced precariously on my knee, I propose a toast. To Venezuela: may your rebuilding be swifter than your economic collapse, and may your aftershocks be less violent than your political upheavals. And to the British taxpayer: congratulations. Your money is currently funding a national disaster response that is almost certainly going to be remembered as 'that time we sent a man named Nigel to an earthquake'.
This is Barnaby 'Biff' Thistlethwaite, drinking to the end of the world, one seismic event at a time.
