In what can only be described as a masterclass in geopolitical déjà vu, Vladimir Putin has decided that the Donbas region requires a second, more enthusiastic round of 'brotherly liberation'. Russian forces, having apparently exhausted their supply of Wagner Group mercenaries and rusty T-72s, are now massing like a particularly aggressive swarm of drunken wasps at a picnic. The target: the key Ukrainian city of Avdiivka, currently facing an encirclement so tight it would make a corset-wearing Victorian lady blush.
Sources on the ground report columns of armour stretching to the horizon, a sight that would be terrifying if it weren't so tragically farcical. One Ukrainian soldier, speaking on condition of anonymity (and possibly a strong desire not to be shot by his own side for talking to a journalist with a gin problem), described the Russian advance as 'like watching a gang of heavily armed pensioners attempt a conga line through a minefield.'
Western analysts, the sort of chaps who get paid in think-tank jargon and lukewarm coffee, are using terms like 'operational pause' and 'strategic redeployment'. But let's call a spade a spade, or in this case, a shambolic invasion a shambolic invasion. The Russians are throwing bodies at a problem that requires brains, a tactic as old as Tsarist Russia itself. Avdiivka's defenders, meanwhile, are hunkered down with the grim determination of a man who has just realised his last bottle of gin is half empty.
The Kremlin's official line, delivered by a spokesman who looks like he's been sucking lemons and lies for breakfast, insists this is all part of a 'special military operation' to protect Russian-speaking citizens. These citizens, one presumes, are the ones who voted with their feet and fled in their millions. The irony would be delicious if it weren't so deadly.
In related news, President Zelenskyy has made another impassioned plea for Western weaponry, specifically the kind that goes boom with sufficient vigour to make Russian generals reconsider their career choices. NATO, as ever, is engaged in its favourite pastime: dithering while composing strongly worded press releases. The official NATO position appears to be 'we condemn this in the strongest possible terms', which in diplomatic speak translates to 'we will do absolutely nothing until the situation has escalated beyond all reason.'
But enough of the macro. Let's talk about the micro, the human element that gets lost in the fog of war and the smog of propaganda. In Avdiivka, there is a woman named Oksana who still tends her vegetable patch despite the shelling. She says the turnips are doing rather well, which is more than can be said for the Russian logistics. There is also a cat named Boris who has become a local celebrity for his uncanny ability to predict incoming artillery. Boris is currently batting around a chewed-up mouse, a metaphor for something I'm sure.
As the sun sets on another day of conflict, one thing becomes clear: the Donbas is a meat grinder, and Putin is feeding it with the enthusiasm of a man who has confused war with a game of Risk. The only question that remains is how many more lives will be sacrificed on the altar of his imperial nostalgia. But that's a question for historians, not drunken hacks. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a bottle of Gordon's and a profound sense of existential dread.