The earth has once again demonstrated its utter contempt for the Philippines, rattling the archipelago with such ferocity that buildings have been rearranged into piles of rubble. At the time of writing, the death toll stands at a provisional number that will almost certainly rise, much like a soufflé in a faulty oven. British rescue teams, ever the gentlemen, are on standby, no doubt polishing their head torches and wondering if they packed enough PG Tips.
The whole affair is a grim reminder that tectonic plates are, in fact, the ultimate anarchists, unbound by human conventions of stability. Meanwhile, government officials are doing what they do best: holding press conferences with serious faces, as though sheer concern can retroactively un-crumple a collapsed school. One cannot help but think that if we spent half as much money on earthquake-proof buildings as we do on parliamentary sandwich budgets, we might be in a better state.
But no, let’s send in the Brits with their stiff upper lips and trauma shears. It’s a scene so tragically predictable it could be written by a committee of doom. The only thing more certain than aftershocks is the inevitable charity single.
I’m off to find a gin that understands my pain.
