The ground trembled beneath Caracas this Tuesday, not with the rhythmic thrum of a crumbling regime, but with the altogether more literal lurch of a 5.2 magnitude earthquake. As buildings swayed like gin-sodden politicians at a boozy fundraiser, the expat community did what any sensible, gin-loving Brit would do: they panicked. And not just any panic, the special kind reserved for moments when you realise your consular support is about as useful as a chocolate teapot at a diplomatic summit.
Let us pause, pour ourselves a stiff measure of outrage, and consider the scene. There they were, our brave, tax-paying, marmite-craving expats, clutching their passports and their rapidly diminishing supply of PG Tips, as the earth decided to rearrange itself. And what was HMG’s reaction? A stiff, polite press release, probably drafted by a man in a suit who hasn’t left Whitehall since 1992, suggesting, in the careful language of diplomatic panic, that people should ‘register with the embassy.’ As if a digital form is any match for a collapsing ceiling.
This is not a bloody fire drill. Venezuela is a nation so unstable that its currency is worth less than the paper it’s printed on. It’s a place where the economy has been in a more dramatic free-fall than a Tory leadership bid. And now the very ground beneath it is joining the act. This, dear reader, is what the FCO (Foreign and Completely Oblivious Office) calls ‘an evolving situation.’ I call it a bloody shambles.
We need real consular support, not the kind you can find in a brochure. We need people on the ground, not just in Caracas but in every godforsaken corner of this quaking, failing state. People who can provide actual gin, some comforting words in a cut-glass accent, and a helicopter out when things go truly pear-shaped. Instead, we get a website and a phone number that probably redirects to a call centre in Slough.
The earthquake is merely a symptom. The fever is the utter lack of preparedness, the colossal failure of imagination that plagues our Foreign Office. They treat every crisis like a surprise, like a birthday party they forgot to attend. The truth is, Venezuela has been a ticking time bomb for years. This earthquake wasn’t a surprise. It was an inevitability. And the only surprise is that our consular services are still caught with their trousers down.
So here is my proposal, drafted on a napkin in the airport lounge of my own sanity. We need a ‘Consular Rapid Response Unit.’ A unit staffed by actual ex-military sorts, diplomatic wrecking crews, and at least one gin connoisseur. They should be prepositioned in every volatile region, not sitting in London waiting for a tweet to go viral. We need vans, not voicemails. We need actions, not encrypted attachments.
But no. Instead we will get another inquiry, another committee, another report with a boring beige cover. And the next time the earth shakes, or the regime topples, or the natives get restless, the British will be left clinging to their Union Jack floaties in a sea of chaos.
This is not a drill. This is a cry for help from the bottom of a very empty cocktail glass. Mr. Prime Minister, pick up the phone. Unblock your ears. The ground is moving, and so should you.
