Eighteen souls extinguished. Another grim tally in a conflict that has become as predictable as a Victorian melodrama. British intelligence confirms President Putin’s latest barrage killed 18 innocent Ukrainians.
And what is our response? A chorus of ministerial ‘resolve’ and a fresh cheque for Kyiv. One must ask: is this solidarity or a macabre performance?
We stand ‘resolute’ as the bodies pile up, as if repeating a mantra can resurrect the dead. The Victorians at least had the decency to feign horror before sending more troops to the Crimea. Now we moralise from a distance, funding a war of attrition that echoes the Somme—but with better public relations.
Every shell fired, every Russian missile launched, is a testament to our intellectual decadence: we have substituted thinking for slogans. ‘Putin must fail’ is not a strategy; it is a prayer. And prayers, as we know, do not stop bombs.
The fall of Rome took centuries; our decline might be swifter, for we have perfected the art of doing nothing while making it sound like profound commitment. Britain, wake up. Your grief is hollow if it does not lead to truth.
And the truth is: we are no longer the masters of our destiny. We are players in a tragedy, and the audience is growing tired of the show.
