In what can only be described as a masterclass in performative concern, the Danes are currently poking a dead whale with sticks while British marine experts stand by, presumably polishing their clipboards and muttering about ‘ecological protocols’. The whale, a majestic creature that once sang to the depths, now serves as a floating prop for a pantomime of environmental stewardship. Our Danish cousins, never ones to miss an opportunity for a good prod, have assembled a crack team of carcass connoisseurs to determine exactly how this cetacean kicked the bucket.
Meanwhile, Her Majesty’s marine monitors have dispatched a delegation to squint at the bloat from a respectful distance, taking meticulous notes that will no doubt gather dust in some Whitehall filing cabinet. The real threat, of course, is not the whale itself but the stench of sanctimony rising from both shores. One can almost hear the whale’s ghost wailing: ‘You had your chance to save me when I was alive.
Now you just want to measure my decomposition.’ The Danes, in a stroke of bureaucratic genius, have classified the whale as a 'potentially hazardous biological incident', which means they can claim expenses for rubber gloves and face masks. The British, not to be outdone, have declared a 'Level 3 Ecological Monitoring Event', which is bureaucrat-speak for ‘We have no idea what to do, but we’ve got a form for it.
’ As the whale slowly deflates, releasing gases that smell suspiciously of hot air, one thing becomes clear: the only thing more bloated than this whale is the regulatory framework surrounding its untimely demise. But fear not, dear reader, for the British marine experts are on the case. They have formed a sub-committee to investigate the feasibility of forming a working group to discuss the terms of reference for a future inquiry.
The Danes, for their part, have already drafted a 47-page report entitled ‘Preliminary Findings on the Whaleness of the Whale: A Holistic Approach’. Meanwhile, the whale just floats there, a silent rebuke to our collective impotence. It’s a tragedy, but it’s also a farce.
And as always, the real victims are the gulls, who are starting to get peckish.
