In a move that has sent diplomatic tumblers tumbling across the chancelleries of Europe, Germany has formally accused Russia of engineering its humiliating defeat at the United Nations Security Council. The perfidious pinstriped puppeteers in Moscow, apparently, pulled the strings that saw Berlin’s pet resolution tumble into the abyss. And who should come bounding to the rescue, brandishing a metaphorical cudgel of support? Why, our very own Bully Boys in Whitehall, led by the irrepressible Boris Johnson lookalike who currently holds the foreign office keys.
Let us, for a moment, step back and examine the sheer, magnificent absurdity of this situation. Here we have Germany, a nation that has not successfully projected military force since the Kaiser’s moustache was in vogue, wailing about a diplomatic defeat. And Russia, a nation that treats the UN like a particularly tedious game of Risk, is accused of, well, being better at the game. The nerve! The cheek! The sheer, unadulterated chutzpah!
But wait, there’s more. The United Kingdom, a nation whose own diplomatic standing is roughly equivalent to a wet firework, has pledged its unwavering support. It is like the Titanic announcing it will stand by the Lusitania. A beautiful, tragic, completely meaningless gesture that serves only to inflate the egos of those involved.
The resolution in question? Something about Ukraine, probably. Or maybe the Syrian chemical weapons dossier. Or perhaps a strongly worded plea for better quality coffee in the delegates’ lounge. At this point, does it even matter? The only thing that matters is that someone is to blame, and in the grand theatre of international relations, Russia is always the most convenient villain. They look the part, they act the part, and they have a terrifyingly effective propaganda machine that makes Goebbels look like a part-time blogger.
But let us not forget the true victims here: the British taxpayers. Their hard-earned pounds are being diverted from vital projects like pothole repair and NHS waiting lists to fund the expensive gin and tonic habits of our diplomatic corps. All so they can stand on a podium and wag their fingers at a country that quite clearly gives not a single, solitary damn.
One can almost imagine the scene in the Kremlin: a room full of grey-faced men in ill-fitting suits, sipping vodka from teacups, and chortling at the sheer predictability of it all. “Ze Germans are blaming us again, Ivan! Yes, yes, very good. Now, who wants more stroganoff?”
Meanwhile, in London, a junior minister is being briefed on the correct tone of outrage. “Remember, old boy, not too angry. We don’t want to seem hysterical. Just a sort of disappointed, but determined, fury. Like when you find a slug in your salad.”
The whole affair is, of course, a farce. A beautifully scripted, perfectly choreographed farce in which everyone plays their role with the grim determination of a Shakespearean actor who has forgotten their lines. Germany plays the wronged party. Russia plays the villain. Britain plays the plucky sidekick. And the rest of the world? The rest of the world is stuck in the theatre, wondering when the interval will arrive so they can neck a warm glass of Chardonnay and pray for the sweet release of intermission.
In the end, the only real loser is the truth. And perhaps the concept of international cooperation. But mostly the truth. It lies mangled and forgotten in the corridor, alongside the discarded press releases and half-eaten canapés.
But fear not, dear reader. For your roving reporter is on the case, gin in hand, ready to dissect the next succulent morsel of diplomatic nonsense that comes our way. Until then, keep your wits sharp and your cynicism sharper.
