Brace yourselves, gentle readers, for the theatre of the absurd has upgraded to a bloody opera. Israel, in a move that surprises absolutely no one who has ever glanced at a map of the Middle East, is now pounding the suburbs of Beirut with the gusto of a disgruntled god hammering a faulty chandelier. The explosions, I am reliably informed by a man who claims to have once shared a cigarette with a Hezbollah operative, are 'quite loud' and 'not ideal for the property market.'
Meanwhile, in London, the corridors of power are abuzz with the frantic rustling of maps and the clinking of teacups laced with brandy. Britain, ever the kindly uncle at the family barbecue who waits until the punch-up is well underway before suggesting a 'calm word,' has announced it stands ready to evacuate its citizens. This, of course, means the deployment of that most feared of military assets: the photocopying of emergency procedures.
I can picture it now. In a windowless room deep within Whitehall, a civil servant named Nigel, whose glasses are held together by Sellotape and whose idea of a holiday is a wet weekend in Bognor Regis, is solemnly marking a map with a highlighter. 'Cypress,' he murmurs, 'is quite nice this time of year.' His colleague, Brenda, is on the phone to a logistics company, inquiring about the feasibility of hiring a fleet of coaches that will inevitably get stuck at the border because someone forgot to check if the driver's licence is valid in a warzone.
The Lebanese, of course, are the true professionals in this farce. They have been practising the art of ducking and covering since before Britain's current prime minister was a glint in his public school housemaster's eye. They do not need a photocopied emergency procedure. They need the world to stop treating their country like a paintball arena for geopolitical grudges.
But wait, there is more! The Foreign Office, in its infinite wisdom, has issued a statement. It is, of course, written in the bureaucratic equivalent of treacle: 'Her Majesty's Government is monitoring the situation closely and advises all British nationals to register their presence with the embassy.' Ah, the classic 'register your presence' gambit. Because when the bombs start falling, nothing beats a good online form to make one feel safe.
I, for one, am preparing for my own heroic evacuation. My plan involves a small inflatable dinghy, a bottle of Gordon's gin, and a complete disregard for international maritime law. I shall head for Cyprus, where I will regale the locals with tales of my bravery until they tire of my slurred rambling and kindly request that I leave.
In the meantime, let us raise a glass to the real heroes: the satirists who must now compete with reality. For how can one mock a situation where the absurdity is already baked into the very foundations of the conflict? The only answer, as always, is more gin.
