The earth has rumbled in Caracas, and 188 souls have been wrenched from this mortal coil, leaving the rest of us to ponder the cosmic joke of plate tectonics. But fear not, dear reader, for the United Kingdom has dispatched its finest rescue teams, who have parachuted into the chaos with the grace of drunken starlings and the resolve of a man who has just realised his gin and tonic has been watered down. They are heroes, these men and women in hi-vis, scrabbling through twisted metal and shattered concrete with the same grim determination one might employ to find a lost cufflink at the bottom of a skip.
I imagine them pausing, briefly, to tut at the architectural shoddiness before resuming their noble work. Meanwhile, the Venezuelan government, with the impeccable timing of a farce, announces that the death toll has 'risen' to 188, as if the number had simply got out of bed and stretched its legs. But let us not be cynical.
Let us instead bask in the warm glow of British exceptionalism, for here we are, once again, picking up the pieces of a world that has gone to pot. And if that pot is half-full of lukewarm gin, then so be it. God save the Queen, or whoever is in charge this week.
