From the blood-soaked wreckage of Myanmar’s civil war, news arrives that the ruling junta is now forcibly conscripting every able-bodied man it can lay its grubby mitts on, as rebel strongholds fall like dominoes in a typhoon. The generals, sensing their grip on power may be slipping faster than a bar of soap in a Bangkok bathhouse, have resorted to the oldest trick in the tyrant’s playbook: grab ’em by the collars and throw ’em at the enemy. The UK, ever the genteel observer from a safe distance, has responded by urging the United Nations to do something.
Anything. Preferably sternly worded. The junta’s desperation is palpable even through the haze of diplomatic verbiage, as they scrabble for warm bodies to plug the gaps in their crumbling front lines.
Meanwhile, the rebel forces, smelling victory and something altogether less fragrant, press their advantage. The international community, as ever, wrings its hands in a pantomime of concern. One can almost hear the clink of teacups in Whitehall as ambassadors draft yet another strongly worded resolution destined for the circular file of history.
The junta’s conscription is not a military strategy; it is the death rattle of a regime that has run out of real soldiers and now scrapes the barrel of its own citizenry. And Britain? Britain tuts, shakes its head, and calls for a UN debate, all while the bodies pile up.
For a country that once ruled the waves, this is a pathetic spectacle. Still, at least the gin is cold.
