The Middle East, that ever-reliable stage for political pantomime, has once again raised the curtain on a new act. Israel, feeling peckish for a bit of air superiority, has opted to rain down a little percussive diplomacy on southern Lebanon. Why?
Because nothing says ‘we value peace’ quite like a sonic boom in your neighbour’s backyard. Meanwhile, Hezbollah, the region’s favourite bearded boogeymen, have issued a statement condemning this ‘new deal’ with all the righteous fury of a man who’s just discovered his falafel has been adulterated with hummus from a jar. The UK, ever the harried schoolmaster, has called for restraint, which in diplomatic terms means ‘Please, chaps, could you possibly commit your atrocities somewhere less newsworthy?
’ The volatile region, as per usual, is living up to its reputation: volatile. But let us not be fooled by the headlines. This is not a war.
It is a carefully choreographed dance of outrage and munitions. Hezbollah will condemn, Israel will ignore, and the UK will hold a press conference featuring a man in a suit who will use words like ‘deeply concerned’ and ‘proportionate response’ while looking as though he’s just swallowed a wasp. The cycle continues.
Tomorrow, perhaps another strike. Perhaps another statement. But the gin in my glass remains the only constant: dry, crisp, utterly indifferent to the spectacle of human folly.
So raise a glass to the absurdity, for in the chaos, at least we have good booze and bad jokes.
