Well, well, well. It seems the Kremlin's menagerie of mismatched tanks and muttering oligarchs has finally lumbered into position for a proper ruckus in the Donbas. British intelligence, those bespectacled purveyors of cheerful gloom, are now warning of a 'critical front' in the city that sounds like a breakfast cereal designed by a depressed Soviet chef. One can almost hear the crunch of gravel under hobnailed boots, the rattle of teacups in Whitehall bunkers.
Let us be clear: the Russian bear, having spent the winter hibernating in muddy trenches and eating its own propaganda, is now awake, hungover, and looking for a fight. The target is a city that has become an obsessional grail for Mr Putin, a place whose name he probably has tattooed on his chest in Cyrillic script. Meanwhile, our spooks are doing what spooks do best: issuing statements so cautiously worded they could be used as anesthetic. 'Critical front,' they murmur, stroking their chins. One imagines a room full of men in beige cardigans, nodding sagely at PowerPoint slides of potential apocalypses.
But let us not be churlish. The intelligence is clear: the Donbas is about to be hit with everything short of the kitchen sink, and possibly that too if someone can find a rusty one in a Ukrainian field. The Russians have been stockpiling shells like a hamster preparing for a nuclear winter. They have more ammunition than sense, which is saying something given the latter is in notably short supply.
Now, the Ukrainians, bless their cotton socks and their unfeasibly brave souls, are digging in. They have become experts at turning city blocks into granite fortresses, making every street a legend and every basement a bastion. But even the hardest nut can be cracked by a sufficiently large hammer. And the Russians, it must be said, have more hammers than a hardware convention for paranoid dictators.
What is to be done? We in the West are doing what we do best: promising heavy weapons whilst checking the small print for 'excluded from this offer.' The Germans will send a helmet if someone can find the paperwork. The Americans will send enough artillery to start a small war, but only after a congressional committee has formed a subcommittee to study the possibility of sending a memo about a feasibility study. And Britain? We will send a stiff upper lip and some warm words, possibly a retired colonel to offer tactical advice over a G&T.
Meanwhile, the city's population faces the choice between flight and fight, each option a grim lottery. The roads are clogged with the fleeing, the air thick with the sound of distant thunder. It is a tragedy playing out on a stage too vast for any one actor to fill. Yet filled it will be, with blood and tears and the occasional heroic last stand.
In conclusion, the Donbas is about to get very loud, very ugly, and very final for many. The Russians are coming, as the saying goes, but they came last year too and found the welcome mat replaced with a minefield. This time, they seem determined to bring the whole house down. So raise a glass of something cheap and flammable to the defenders, for they will need every bit of luck and a few miracles besides. And perhaps another gin, for the journalist covering this mess from a safe distance, feeling impotent and slightly sick.