In a move that can only be described as a masterclass in diplomatic doublethink, His Majesty's Government has today issued a solemn call for de-escalation in Gaza, a region currently enjoying the kind of aerial redecoration only the Israeli Defence Force can provide. Six souls departed this mortal coil in the latest round of strikes, among them a cameraman for Al Jazeera, a man whose final frame was apparently deemed insufficiently pro-iron dome by the powers that be.
Let us pause, dear reader, to appreciate the exquisite theatre of it all. The British Foreign Office, a body that has spent the better part of a century perfecting the art of saying everything and nothing simultaneously, has now urged 'restraint' on all sides. This is rather like a drunk at closing time pleading for last orders to be peaceful. The irony is so thick you could carve a effigy of Balfour from it.
The cameraman, one Fadi al-Wahidi, was doing what brave souls with cameras do: documenting the misery of war for those fortunate enough to watch from their sofas. His final shot, one imagines, was a rather poignant composition of smoke and rubble, a Pietà of shrapnel. His death is a tragedy, but in the ledger of this conflict, it is merely a line item, a cost of doing business for the global news cycle.
What is the de-escalation Britain imagines? Perhaps a sternly worded letter? A strongly worded tweet? The pattern is as predictable as a gin shortage at a Wetherspoons. Israel bombs. People die. The West tuts. Israel bombs again. The Palestinians, God love them, are allowed a token rocket or three before the response is deemed disproportionate. It is a dance as old as the Balfour Declaration, and just as graceful.
The tragedy is not merely the deaths, but the profound absurdity of the response. To call for de-escalation while supplying the bombs is like a chef decrying gluttony while shovelling foie gras down your throat. Britain's arms sales to Israel are a matter of public record, a cheerful little commerce in destruction. But do not worry, the Foreign Office has a very nice speech prepared about the sanctity of human life. They'll wheel it out at the UN, no doubt, while clusters of munitions factory shareholders toast their dividends.
So here we are, another day in the land of milk and honey, where the honey is napalm and the milk is curdled with blood. The dead are counted, the cameras are replaced, and the world moves on to the next crisis. But somewhere, in a bar not unlike this one, a journalist orders a double gin and wonders if we've all lost our bloody minds.
Biff out.
