In a turn of events so predictable it could have been written by a mangy pigeon with a Ouija board, the Russian army is once again menacing a Donbas city. Which one? Who cares, they all look the same after the fifth shelling.
The Kremlin's finest, those chaps who can't even queue for a toilet without a state mandate, are lumbering forward with all the grace of a drunk hippopotamus on a trampoline. Meanwhile, Britain, in a fit of plucky defiance, has lobbed a few more missile systems into the Ukrainian mix. Because nothing says 'diplomatic solution' quite like a shoulder-fired rocket launcher with 'Property of Her Majesty's Government' stamped on the side.
'These systems will help Ukraine defend itself,' said a defence spokesperson, wearing a tie so overstarched it could double as a splint. Translation: 'We have no idea what we're doing, but it's better than sending them a strongly worded letter on monogrammed stationery.' The missiles, reportedly of the Starstreak variety, are designed to shred helicopters and low-flying aircraft.
They are also excellent for making Russian pilots reconsider their career choices, preferably while performing an impromptu, screaming faceplant into the nearest wheat field. The Donbas city in question, which shall remain nameless because frankly it's had enough bad press, is bracing for the inevitable. Citizens are advised to stockpile water, tinned goods, and a stiff upper lip.
The last item is in short supply, but a bottle of gin and a copy of 'The Art of War' should suffice. In related news, a Russian general was quoted as saying, 'We will crush this bourgeois, anti-Russian junta.' Which is a fancy way of saying, 'We have run out of vodka and are now just pointing at things while screaming.
' The British missiles, meanwhile, are being deployed with all the tactical finesse of a clog dancer at a ballet recital. But they are here, and they are bristling with righteous indignation and an alarming number of explosives. As the sun sets on another day of glorious European chaos, one thing is clear: the Donbas will survive, the missiles will fly, and somewhere in a London pub, a man in a rumpled suit is raising a glass to 'plucky little Ukraine.
' God save the Queen, and God help the bloke who tries to invade a country armed with British weaponry and a grudge the size of the Russian debt.
