Beirut, a city where the cocktails are shaker-stirred with political instability and the air smells of cordite and hummus, has delivered its latest dispatch from the theatre of the absurd. Hezbollah, the men in beards who make the cast of 'The Life of Brian' look like a bunch of amateurs, have officially told the renewed Lebanon ceasefire proposal to sod off. In a statement that could have been penned by a drunken philosopher with a death wish, they declared the whole thing a 'Zionist plot' and vowed to keep their rockets primed for action.
Meanwhile, off the coast of Haifa, His Majesty's Royal Navy has been spotted doing what it does best: looking stern and floating around in grey steel. The deployment of British naval patrols to the region is a move so predictable it might as well have been scripted by a committee of retired generals who still think the Empire exists. This is, after all, the same government that thinks a stiff upper lip and a cup of Earl Grey can solve anything.
But let's not be too hard on the Admiralty. They've got to do something with all those ships, and the gin in the wardroom isn't going to drink itself. The irony of the situation is so thick you could spread it on a bagel.
Hezbollah, funded by Iran and armed to the teeth, rejects a ceasefire that would have given them a chance to rearm and regroup. And the British, whose idea of a successful military intervention is usually 'not getting humiliated by a bunch of blokes in sandals', are now patrolling off Haifa to 'ensure stability'. It's like watching a pantomime where the villain wears a turban and the hero is a distracted old man who forgot his glasses.
The locals in Haifa, used to the sound of sirens and the smell of falafel, are reportedly more concerned about the traffic jams the patrols are causing than any existential threat. 'They keep saluting and looking important,' said one citizen, who wished to remain anonymous for fear of being mocked by his friends. 'I'd rather they just opened a branch of Marks & Spencer.
' And perhaps he's right. In a world gone mad, the only sensible response is to laugh until your ribs ache and order another round. So raise a glass, dear reader, to the absurdity of it all.
To Hezbollah, who reject ceasefires like a toddler rejects broccoli. To the Royal Navy, who think showing the flag is somehow going to make the rockets stop. And to the poor, beleaguered people of the Levant, who just want a quiet night in without the sound of explosions.
In the end, this is all just theatre. A bloody, pointless, expensive theatre where the actors are too stubborn to rewrite the script. And the real joke is on us, the audience, who keep buying tickets.
