The earth has violently shrugged in Venezuela, and if you thought the death toll of 900 was grim, wait until you hear how the international community has responded. Yes, dear reader, the British rescue teams have swept in with the thunderous efficiency of a double-decker bus that has somehow found its way to Caracas. They are, we are told, leading the charge. Which means, presumably, that the Venezuelan rescuers are either being elbowed aside or are simply standing in awe of our superior grit, tea-making facilities, and ability to form an orderly queue in the midst of chaos.
Let us pause to consider the magnificent absurdity of this: a nation that cannot fix its own potholes, whose trains regularly go on strike to attend union meetings about the length of their tea breaks, is now the global beacon of disaster response. The same country that panics at a flake of snow has sent its best and brightest to dig through the rubble of a nation that, let's face it, has been suffering a slow-motion disaster for years under the watchful eye of a socialist paradise gone rogue.
But wait, there's more. The rescue teams are not alone. Oh no, they are accompanied by a veritable menagerie of British exports: bad teeth, a sense of superiority, and the unshakeable belief that a strict adherence to the Highway Code will somehow pacify tectonic plates. Our brave lads and lasses are probably already handing out cups of milky tea to traumatised survivors who have just watched their families wiped out. 'There, there, have a Digestive. It's all very tragic, but do try to pull yourself together before the news cameras arrive.'
And what of the Venezuelan government? No doubt they are thanking their lucky stars that the earth has conveniently shifted the world's attention away from their own administrative incompetence. They will smile, shake hands with our ambassador, and mutter something about 'international solidarity' while quietly pocketing any aid that isn't nailed down. Meanwhile, the real count of dead might well be higher. Because when does the official ever tally up to the actual, in a country where statistics are treated as creative writing exercises?
The media, of course, is having a field day. 'British bravery in the face of disaster,' they coo. 'Our boys are heroes,' they say, conveniently forgetting that our own disaster preparedness at home involves a few sandbags and a prayer to the weather gods. But never mind. This is a chance to feel good about ourselves, to bask in the glow of our own generosity while the Venezuelan bodies stack up. At least we're not just gawping. We're doing it with a stiff upper lip and a well-organised spreadsheet.
So let us raise a glass of warm gin to the British rescue teams, the true heroes of this tragedy. May they find survivors. May they also find a decent gin and tonic in Caracas. And may we all remember, as we sip our tea and watch the disaster unfold on our screens, that the real horror is not the earthquake but the smugness with which we narrate the suffering of others. But then, that's what the British do best: we turn catastrophe into a pageant of our own decency. God save the Queen. And the Venezuelans, if there's any room left on the prayer list.
