In what can only be described as a spectacularly predictable turn of events, the Russian bear has lumbered out of its cave, gnashing its teeth and waving a rather blunt claw after what the chaps at Rosenberg are calling a 'strike' in Luhansk. Imagine the scene: a drab Tuesday afternoon, the kind where the gin in one's flask tastes faintly of regret, and suddenly the air is thick with accusations of retaliation. The Kremlin, presumably scanning its script for the next act of this absurdist play, has vowed to respond.
To what, you ask? To a strike that may or may not have happened, in a place that may or may not be Ukraine, by people who may or may not be there. It's a bit like trying to find the plot in a Pinter play after several gins.
The real question is: who is avenging whom, and for what? The whole affair reeks of the sort of circular logic that makes Brexit look like a masterclass in coherence. One can almost see the diplomats, their faces set in grimaces of practiced outrage, shuffling papers that have been shuffled since the Cold War.
Meanwhile, the rest of us are left to wonder if the vodka has finally pickled their last working neuron. Will there be retaliation? Of course, there will be retaliation.
It's the only language these pygmies of statecraft understand. But for what, exactly? For the strike that might have been?
For the principle of the thing? For the sheer bloody-mindedness of it all? It's all a bit like trying to nail a blancmange to a wall.
The only certainty is that the news cycle will spin, the pundits will pundit, and I shall be here, gin in hand, ready to chronicle the farce.
