In a move that has sent tremors through the corridors of Whitehall and caused a noticeable spike in gin consumption among the saluting classes, the Kremlin has apparently decided that the English Channel is not, in fact, sovereign British waters. No, no, Vladimir Putin’s merry band of maritime misanthropes took it upon themselves to fire warning shots across the bow of a Royal Navy vessel. Cue the dramatic music, the sharp intakes of breath, and the squeaking of deck shoes as admirals everywhere scramble to find a stiff drink.
Let’s get one thing straight: this isn’t some forgotten corner of the Baltic. This is the English Channel, the watery thoroughfare where British holidaymakers once queued for Calais and where the Navy has been lurking since before Napoleon had a proper haircut. But now, according to the Kremlin, it’s a place where their warships can practice their target acquisition skills on Her Majesty’s finest.
The details, as they drip through the sieve of official statements, are predictably contradictory. The British Ministry of Defence, in its usual wooden monotone, confirmed an 'interaction' with a Russian vessel. The word 'interaction' here apparently includes the firing of what the Russians call 'warning shots' but which the Navy, I’m sure, calls 'a bloody cheek'. The Russian version, naturally, accuses the British boat of some unspecified provocation, perhaps a failure to appreciate the nuances of Cold War-era aggressive posturing.
Now, I am no naval strategist. The last time I set foot on a warship was for a boozy press jolly to Portsmouth, and I spent most of it in the heads, regretting the shepherd’s pie. But even I know that firing warning shots at a NATO vessel in the Channel is not a friendly gesture. It is, to use the technical term, a bit of a dick move.
The Prime Minister, no doubt roused from a deep sleep by a very junior aide with a clipboard, has issued a statement 'deploring' the action and 'calling for calm'. This is the same Prime Minister who once compared Putin to a 'chilled-out nightclub bouncer'. I suspect the bouncer has now thrown his first punch, and the hangover will be legendary.
The real question, of course, is what does this mean for the Great British Public? Well, it means we have to pretend to care about naval incidents while simultaneously worrying about the cost of baked beans. It means that the papers will run thrilling headlines about gunboat diplomacy, while on the ground, we are still waiting for a functioning rail service. It is the eternal British tragedy: a nation of shopkeepers forced to occasionally defend their shelves from a disgruntled Russian bear.
But let’s not lose our heads. The Royal Navy, though reduced in size to something resembling a flotilla of pedaloes, still packs a punch. Our destroyers are shiny, our sailors are game, and our admirals have moustaches that can detect Russian aggression from three miles away. The real danger is not the shots fired, but the diplomatic flim-flam that follows. There will be summits, stern words, and the inevitable 'joint statement' that means nothing.
Meanwhile, I shall raise a glass of Gordon’s to the brave lads and lasses on the HMS Whatever-It’s-Called. May their torpedoes always find their mark, and may their gin be plentiful. As for Mr Putin, I have a simple message: we invented the game of maritime intimidation, and we’re rather good at it. You may have fired a warning shot, but you’ve only woken a sleeping giant with a very large hangover and a point to prove.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to write about the escalating cost of chicken tikka masala. Priorities, people.
