Vladimir Putin’s refusal to meet Volodymyr Zelensky is, on the surface, a diplomatic snub. Strip away the courtesies of statecraft, and what do you see? A Byzantine emperor dismissing a provincial governor.
A Roman patrician turning his back on a barbarian chieftain. The language of power is universal, and it speaks volumes about the crumbling edifice of Western influence. Britain, ever the nostalgic imperialist, calls for ‘unwavering support’—as if waving a Union Jack from the sidelines will restore the order of 1914.
But we are not in 1914. We are in a late-imperial twilight, where the certainties of the past dissolve into the fog of a multipolar world. Putin knows this.
He has read his Gibbon. He understands that civilisations do not collapse in a day; they rot from within, subsidising their own decline with platitudes about ‘sovereignty’ while the real business of power is conducted elsewhere. The West’s response to Ukraine has been a masterpiece of moral theatre: grand speeches, financial dribbles, and a touching faith that sanctions will topple a man who has spent two decades insulating his economy from the very system we champion.
Meanwhile, Putin plays the long game, waiting for the West’s attention to wander, for the next crisis to distract, for the voters of Europe to grow weary of paying for someone else’s war. Zelensky, for all his courage, is a tragic figure: a Churchill without an empire, a Pericles without an Athenian fleet. Britain’s call for ‘unwavering support’ is the cry of a nation that has forgotten what unwavering looks like.
It is a nation that has outsourced its defences, hollowed out its industry, and replaced patriotism with consumerism. We demand that others sacrifice while we debate the correct pronouns. Putin’s snub is not just a diplomatic insult; it is a diagnosis.
The patient is feverish, and the physician is amused.
