In the latest episode of ‘Who Is More Put Upon: Eastern Europe Edition’, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky finds himself tangled in the thorny briar of history, specifically relating to a WWII army unit that has Poland howling louder than a windswept wolf at the gates of Warsaw. The row, as grating as a gin-less G&T, centres on the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA), a group that both fought against the Nazis and, inconveniently, engaged in ethnic cleansing of Poles. Now, with British diplomacy parachuting in like a posh peacemaker at a pub brawl, Zelensky is under pressure to kiss and make up with his Polish neighbours. But why, pray tell, does Her Majesty’s Government care about a spat between two countries that already hate each other’s guts more than a pair of in-laws at a Christmas dinner?
The answer, dear reader, is as predictable as a hangover after a double shift in the Commons bar: geopolitics. Britain, in its infinite wisdom, sees Poland as the solid oak table leg of European defence, propping up the continent against the bear of Moscow. Ukraine, meanwhile, is the bouncy castle that keeps deflating but refuses to be taken down. So when these two start squabbling over a 70-year-old grudge, it threatens to undermine the entire bulwark against Vlad the Invader. Thus, British officials, led by that slipperiest of diplomats, Sir Someone-or-Other, are shuttling between Kyiv and Warsaw, brandishing teacups and platitudes about ‘shared sacrifice’.
Let us not forget the absurdity: a row over a historical army unit that most Britons couldn't locate on a map if you offered them a lifetime supply of Pimm's. The UPA, to the unpractised eye, sounds like a budget airline or a new protein bar. But to Poles, it is a bloody spectre, a reminder of Volhynia massacres where tens of thousands of Poles were butchered. To Ukrainians, it is a symbol of resistance against Soviet oppression, a delicate point that Zelensky can hardly denounce without alienating nationalist elements at home.
Now enter the British, stage left, with their traditional solution to all foreign policy crises: a compromise that pleases no one and a memo circulated so widely it could wallpaper the Houses of Parliament. The plan? For Zelensky to issue a vague statement of ‘regret’ without explicitly apologising, while Poland agrees to unblock training for Ukrainian troops on Polish soil. Splendid. A diplomatic fudge wrapped in a bribe, served with a side of self-congratulation.
But the real tragedy is that this pantomime distracts from the actual crisis: the grinding war in Ukraine, the daily slaughter, the frozen trenches, the power outages. While these two nations squabble over history’s ghosts, Russian shells continue to fall on civilian infrastructure. It is as if two drowning men paused to argue over who left the tap running. And the British, with their fading empire and shrinking influence, play the role of the lifeboat captain who refuses to steer.
In the end, Zelensky will likely bend, as he must. He needs Polish weapons, Polish airspace, Polish goodwill. He will offer a diplomatic sigh, a murmured ‘let us look forward not back’, and the row will fizzle out like a damp firework. But the lesson is clear: history never dies, it just gets drunk and picks fights at international summits. And British diplomacy, that vaunted art of muddling through, remains the same as it ever was: a stiff upper lip and a glass of something stronger to wash down the hypocrisy.
So raise a glass to the men and women who keep this farce turning. To the diplomats with their fat pensions and thin patience. To the politicians who will smile and shake hands while their people die in a war that makes no sense. And to you, dear reader, for caring enough to read this column while the world burns. Cheers.
