In a turn of events that has left the Kremlin's press office in a state of linguistic paralysis, the genteel city of St Petersburg found itself on the receiving end of a rather insistent wake-up call from Ukrainian drone strikes. Yes, the same St Petersburg that gave us Dostoevsky, the Hermitage, and a rather fetching shade of imperial green is now apparently a target in Putin's progressively flaccid special military operation.
Let us not mince words: this is not a good look for the man who promised a blitzkrieg but delivered a slow, oozing trudge through the mud of geopolitical embarrassment. The drones, those pesky harbingers of modern warfare, have now visited the very birthplace of the Russian revolution with the kind of delicacy one might associate with a rhinoceros doing ballet. The explosions, I am told, were 'limited' and 'contained,' which is officialese for 'a few things went boom but we are pretending it is fine.'
Local authorities, with the sort of panache one expects from a bureaucracy that still uses carbon paper, immediately declared a 'special operation' to 'restore the cosmetic integrity of the city's airspace.' Translation: they fired some anti-aircraft guns at imagined threats and then blamed the weather.
The economic hub of Russia, a place where oligarchs park their yachts and their mistresses, is now a potential target for every Tom, Dick, and Volodymyr with a drone and a grudge. This is the kind of news that makes one reach for a bottle of gin, preferably of a Dutch origin, to steady the nerves. The Russian war machine, once a terrifying symphony of steel and spite, now sounds like a broken accordion played by a drunk in a snowstorm.
But let us not be too hasty in our mockery. This is, after all, a tragedy of epic proportions for the residents of St Petersburg who, until yesterday, could enjoy a nice walk along the Neva without wondering if the buzzing overhead was a particularly large bee or a drone carrying a payload of righteous indignation. The Kremlin, in its infinite wisdom, has responded by promising retaliatory 'asymmetric measures,' which is diplomatic code for 'we are going to do something that will make things worse.
Meanwhile, the Ukrainian defence ministry has issued a statement so full of understatement it could have been written by an English butler. 'We confirm a successful operation to reduce the number of expensive Russian toys in the St Petersburg area. More details to follow.' This is the kind of quiet, smug efficiency that could make even the most stolid British civil servant break into a smile.
In conclusion, St Petersburg has discovered that the modern battlefield is not a thing of trenches and tanks but something that can reach you in your drawing room whilst you sip a cup of tea. Putin's war machine, already noisy and obnoxious, is now also showing signs of rust. The question on everyone's lips, from the barrooms of Moscow to the quiet corridors of Whitehall, is this: how long before the drones are knocking on the door of the Kremlin itself? Only time, and the availability of cheap drone parts, will tell.
