In a move that has surprised absolutely no one, unless you count the gentle lambs of Fleet Street who still believe in diplomatic niceties, Israel has decided to expand its 'limited ground operation' in Lebanon into a full-blown waltz through the orchards. And who is there to hold the lantern? Why, our very own striped-trousered envoys from the Foreign Office, coordinating what they euphemistically call 'regional stability' which in plain English means 'keeping the oil flowing and the arms deals ticking over.'
Let us paint the scene. The IDF, fresh from their adventures in Gaza, have now remembered that Lebanon also exists and is, inconveniently, hosting a bunch of chaps with rocket launchers who don't appreciate the view of Israeli settlements. So, tanks it is. And what does His Majesty's Government do? They 'coordinate.' They 'liaise.' They probably send a strongly worded memo politely requesting that the rubble be kept to a minimum and that the press releases use the correct pronouns.
Meanwhile, the reality on the ground is as messy as a Wetherspoons on a Saturday night. Villages are being shelled, civilians are fleeing, and the UN is doing what the UN does best: issuing statements that are about as effective as a chocolate teapot. But fear not, because the British are there, presumably with a thermos of tea and a map of the nearest gin distillery, because nothing says 'stability' like a stiff drink and a bit of diplomatic hedging.
Let us not forget the history, the tragicomic farce of Middle Eastern geopolitics where everyone is the victim and everyone is the perpetrator. Israel calls it self-defence. Hezbollah calls it resistance. The Lebanese call it a Tuesday. And Britain? Britain calls it an opportunity to show we're still relevant, still a player on the world stage, even if our own stage is currently a bit wobbly from Brexit and cost-of-living crises.
But here is the rub, my dear readers. This 'coordination' is simply the latest chapter in a book titled 'How to Maintain the Empire Without Actually Having One.' We bomb, we sanction, we send in the SAS for 'advisory roles,' but we never actually take responsibility. Oh no, that would be too vulgar. We are the polite guests at the geopolitical orgy, offering a handkerchief to wipe the blood from the floor while pretending we didn't bring the knives.
I suppose we should be grateful. At least we're not sending troops. Not yet. But give it time. The cycle is always the same: outrage, diplomacy, more outrage, then bombing. And in between, the British establishment will continue to 'coordinate' and 'stabilise' with the same vigour they apply to ordering a round at the golf club.
So raise a glass, if you will, to the brave men and women in the Foreign Office who are even now mapping out the safest routes for the arms convoys and the most effective ways to spin the inevitable civilian casualties. They are the unsung heroes of carnage, the poets of plausible deniability. And they do it all with a stiff upper lip and a glass of something clear and strong.
I am off to find a bar. The news is too sobering without a drink.
