In a development that has sent shivers down the spines of the gin-and-tonic set, a British couple cruising the Med have had their holiday rudely interrupted by a Russian warship. The vessel, a hulking grey behemoth of Soviet nostalgia, decided that the couple's modest yacht was either a NATO spy ship or a particularly aggressive seagull. According to the traumatised pair, a 'warning fire went up' – a phrase that conjures images of a rather overzealous bonfire night, if the bonfire were manned by men with missile launchers and a grudge against the West.
Let us be clear: this is not a drill. This is not a scene from 'The Hunt for Red October' re-enacted by am-dram enthusiasts. This is real life, where a boat named 'The Something-or-Other' suddenly found itself in the crosshairs of a vessel that could sink a small island if it felt like it. The couple, who shall remain nameless for their own safety (and to avoid a libel suit from the Kremlin), described the encounter with the steely resolve of people who have seen too many episodes of 'The Crown'. 'We were just having our morning coffee,' they said, 'when we noticed a rather large ship pointing its guns at us. We thought it might be a misunderstanding. Then the warning fire went up.'
Now, I'm no expert on naval etiquette, but I'm fairly certain that discharging a weapon in the direction of a civilian vessel is not covered in the Geneva Convention's guide to 'Polite Interactions at Sea'. This is a flagrant act of intimidation, a flex of muscle that would make a bodybuilder blush. And yet, the British government's response has been as measured as a vicar at a tea party. 'We are aware of the incident,' they said, 'and we are monitoring the situation closely.' Monitoring? For heaven's sake, we should be sending a strongly worded letter, or at the very least, a sternly raised eyebrow.
But this is the state of modern geopolitics: a floating bully with a chip on its shoulder decides to pick on a yacht, and we tut-tut from the safety of our armchairs. The couple are now safely back on dry land, nursing their PTSD and a profound distrust of anything with a hammer and sickle. Meanwhile, Putin sits in his bunker, chuckling into his caviar, knowing that his little display of power has achieved exactly what he wanted: to remind us that the Cold War never really ended. It just traded its overcoats for Hawaiian shirts and went on holiday.
So pour yourself a stiff G&T, dear reader, and spare a thought for the brave yachtsmen who stared down the barrel of a Russian cannon and lived to tell the tale. Their story is a testament to the absurdity of our times: a world where a pleasure cruise can become a geopolitical incident faster than you can say 'mutually assured destruction'.
