In a stunning revelation that has sent shockwaves through the corridors of power and the bitter dregs of my breakfast gin, UK intelligence has finally cracked the code on Vladimir Putin’s vaunted image machine. Yes, dear readers, the man who has perfected the art of looking like a stern, shirtless horseman or a steely-eyed statesman has been outed as a mere puppet of propaganda. And I for one am clutching my pearls (and my bottle) in mock surprise.
According to sources who are probably just as sozzled as I am, the Kremlin’s propaganda tactics are less about Machiavellian genius and more about a desperate scramble to maintain the illusion of a strong, unflappable leader. Imagine my shock. It turns out that the carefully curated images of Putin flexing his pectorals in Siberia or striding through the Kremlin like a cossack on steroids are not, in fact, spontaneous snapshots of a demigod at work. They are the product of a slick, cynical operation that would make a PR agency blush.
The report, leaked from an undisclosed bunker in Cheltenham, details how the Kremlin employs a series of psychological levers to control the narrative. There’s the ‘strongman’ archetype, which involves Putin riding bears, piloting fighter jets, and generally behaving like a Bond villain who skipped the nuance and went straight for the megalomania. There’s the ‘father of the nation’ routine, where he pats children on the head and poses with puppies like a benevolent dictator with a heart of gold. And then there’s the ‘victim of Western aggression’ trope, which is trotted out whenever anyone dares to question his annexation of bits of Europe.
But here’s the kicker: the intelligence suggests that this propaganda machine is not just for external consumption. Oh no. The Russian people themselves are being force-fed a diet of state television and patriotic drivel that would make even the most hardened Soviet apparatchik gag. Putin is portrayed as the only bulwark against a decadent, morally bankrupt West, a narrative that conveniently ignores the rampant corruption and the fact that Russian life expectancy for men is lower than that of a mayfly.
What fascinates me, though, is the sheer banality of it all. The Kremlin’s tactics are so textbook that they might as well be issuing a manual titled ‘How to Run a Petty Autocracy for Dummies’. Step one: control the media. Step two: crush dissent. Step three: project an image of invincibility. Step four: repeat until the country runs out of vodka. It’s the political equivalent of a child throwing a tantrum in a sandpit, only with nuclear weapons.
And yet, the West seems to be caught in a perpetual state of flummoxed amazement. ‘Oh, look! Putin is smiling! What does it mean?’ ‘Is he wearing a new watch? Is that a signal of some kind?’ I half expect them to start analysing the creases in his trousers for hidden messages. Newsflash: Putin is a man. A deeply unpleasant, kleptocratic man, but a man nonetheless. He bleeds, he bluffs, and I suspect he smells of mothballs and sour milk.
The real masterpiece of this whole affair is how the intelligence community has managed to present this revelation with the same solemnity as if they’d discovered the secret of cold fusion. ‘We have exposed the Kremlin’s propaganda tactics!’ they declare, as if anyone with half a brain and an internet connection hadn’t already figured that out. It’s like announcing that the sky is blue or that politicians lie. Bravo, chaps. Have a medal.
But let us not be entirely cynical. There is a grim humour in watching the mighty Putin, the man who would be Tsar, reduced to a collection of tired PR stunts. The next time he appears on screen, I shall imagine a team of spin doctors frantically photoshopping his cheekbones and rehearsing his lines. And I shall raise a glass of the cheapest gin I can find to the sheer, glorious absurdity of it all.
So, what have we learned? That propaganda is as old as politics, that strongmen are insecure, and that the intelligence community is sometimes guilty of stating the obvious. But also that the truth, however mundane, has a way of seeping through the cracks. And if that truth can be delivered with a side of sardonic wit and a generous splash of Hendrick’s, then perhaps we are not entirely lost.
