In a move that surprised absolutely no one with a functioning cerebral cortex, Israel has decided that the best way to ensure security is to bomb Lebanon back to the Stone Age, preferably with a few extra craters for ambience. The civilian toll, as you might expect, is mounting faster than a gin bill at a lazy journalist’s local. And Britain, in a masterclass of diplomatic huffing and puffing, has issued a sternly worded plea for restraint.
Restraint! As if asking a toddler nicely to stop painting the cat green. The Foreign Office has clearly dug deep into its arsenal of gentle remonstration, perhaps following the ancient playbook of 'if we say please enough times, the bombs will turn into daisies.
' Meanwhile, the locals in Beirut are reportedly collecting shrapnel as souvenirs, because what else is there to do when your government is a smouldering ruin and your British allies are polishing their teacups? The irony is so thick you could slice it with a blunt scimitar. We are witnessing the absolute farce of international relations: the bully bashes the smaller kid, the parents tut loudly from behind the curtains, and the bully continues bashing.
Britain, my dear sweet Albion, your 'restraint' has all the effectiveness of a chocolate teapot in a heatwave. Perhaps it's time to replace the ambassador's velvet slippers with a spine. But fear not, citizens of Lebanon: your suffering is not in vain.
It provides excellent content for columnists like me to feign outrage over our third gin and tonic. Britain urges restraint. Israel escalates.
And the world clinks its glasses, toasted with denial.
