The Ministry of Defence, in a statement that could have been written on a napkin at a very cheap wedding, has announced that Russian forces are once again massing around the Donbas like hungover tourists around a continental breakfast buffet. The target, they say, is the city of Kramatorsk, a place whose name sounds like a Polish curse but is actually the administrative heart of the Donetsk region. According to the boffins in London, Putin is gearing up for a 'new offensive', which is a bit like saying a wasp is gearing up for a new sting: technically true, but causes everyone to flap their hands and run in circles.
The assessment, leaked to the press by a source who 'spoke on condition of anonymity' (read: a major in the bar), suggests that Russia is preparing to 'exploit any tactical opportunity' presented by the spring. This is a phrase that should terrify anyone who has ever seen a Russian soldier in a field of sunflowers, because it implies these fellows have a plan beyond 'go east until we run out of vodka'. The build-up, they say, includes artillery, drones, and the kind of grim-faced men who haven't smiled since 1973. Kramatorsk, if it falls, would be a prize for Putin: a shiny, bloodstained bauble to wave at the Russian public while his economy crumbles like a stale biscuit.
But let us not forget the theatre of it all. This is a war that has become a spectacular opera of incompetence on both sides, with the orchestra tuning up in the Ministry of Defence bunker while the audience (us) chokes on popcorn. The UK's warning, issued with the solemnity of a vicar announcing a parish cake sale, is almost certainly accurate. But accuracy in war is like a best man's speech: everyone hopes it's over quickly, and nobody really wants to hear the details. The Donbas has been a meat grinder since 2014, and now it's about to receive a fresh shipment of minced men.
Meanwhile, in London, the government is considering sending more tanks. Because, as everyone knows, the solution to a quagmire is to add an Abrams. I suspect the Prime Minister is under the impression that Donbas is a tennis tournament in Doncaster, and the tanks will be useful for parking on the grass. But honestly, who can tell anymore? The whole thing is a farce wrapped in a tragedy, garnished with a sprig of self-righteousness.
So raise a glass of something cheap and flammable to Kramatorsk. May it hold, or fall, or do whatever it takes to become a trivia question in a future pub quiz. And to the men in suits predicting the offensive, a hearty 'well done' for stating the obvious with a straight face. The rest of us will just be over here, drinking heavily and refreshing our phones for the next instalment of this glorious, nightmare buffet.
