Rapid Response

He had been waiting for the return of the Cold War for years, she said. Perestroika had left him cold. Glasnost had elicited derisory snorts, and he'd chosen to ignore the collapse of  Communist Party  by briefly displaying an avid interest in learning to play the banjo. Which went on too long. But as it turned out, she said, the West's simplistic reliance on the free market economy, failing to take into account the wounded pride of the post-Soviet body politic, had created a vacuum into which any bare chested dickhead can think he's Rocky fucking Balboa. And not gay. Perkiest I've seen him in years, she said. I mean yes, he wants the total collapse of the bourgeois state, but it gets him out of the house, and frankly, I've too much on.

The maps were spread wide over the kitchen table, with the sites of attacks circled in marker. "The problem as I see it" I said "is one of escalation versus inaction. We need to decide whether there's a moral case for intervention or whether, post-Libya, we need any more actors in an already complex conflict. If chemical attacks are confirmed, that surely is the final straw; but shouldn't we be actively pursuing a policy of de-escalation? In short, what's the least worst option?" I sketched a few notes. This, surely, after years of failure, would be the blog post that made my name. The theme tune from the Archers played and my wife dried a pan meaningfully. "Don't forget the boys need picking up from Cubs" she said.

Distracted, I needed coffee. There was a place on ther corner I occasionally visited, and after  a brief chat with the barista (which doesn't really need to be gone in to, it was quite dull) I stood watching the drips of espresso fall into my waiting cup, it was then that I got the idea. "What do you think" I said, "about the idea of a man whi's finally achieved an ambition of some sort, some sort of apotheosis, only, in the moment of his triumph, he gets hit in the head by a piece of descending Chinese spacecraft?" What pathos, I thought, smiling as the last drip hit the crema. "Dude, that was last week" he said, unsmiling, as he handed me my drink. "And no one says apotheosis. £2.70 please."