Right. So Venezuela has finally achieved what even the most ambitious dystopian novelist would consider a bit 'on the nose'. Hospitals are now flooded not with the usual Latin American soap opera complaints of 'passionate gunshot wounds' and 'rancid ceviche poisoning', but with full-blown panic attacks and fractures.
Because nothing says 'we've reached peak civilisation' quite like a nation of people so terrified they can't even break a bone without it being a statement on the existential horror of modern life. And who is on standby? UK crisis doctors.
Yes, the very same medics who barely have time to listen to your cough before they're off to save the NHS from itself are now expected to parachute into a country where the currency is worth less than a used teabag. Do they not realise that the average Venezuelan's blood pressure is already off the charts from having to choose between starvation and eating a pet? This is not a crisis, this is a circus.
And the ringmaster is wearing a top hat made of oil and a monocle of corruption. Meanwhile, the government has declared a 'state of alarm' which presumably means they'll be putting up some string lights and hoping for the best. Absolutely marvellous.
The only thing flooding faster than the hospitals is the sheer audacity of this mess. God save the king, and preferably also the poor sod who has to deal with a broken leg while simultaneously having a panic attack because he can't afford the plaster cast.
