In a stunning display of diplomatic prowess that would make a goldfish look like Machiavelli, the latest ceasefire in Ukraine has collapsed faster than a soufflé in a hurricane. Russian drones, presumably guided by the same moral compass as a hungry wolf, have murdered 13 more souls. The Kremlin’s peace offering, it seems, is a payload of shrapnel and despair.

Britain, bless its stiff upper lip and bottomless reservoir of performative outrage, has pledged ‘fresh support.’ This is the diplomatic equivalent of shouting ‘Get well soon!’ at a funeral. Fresh support. What does that even mean? A crate of Earl Grey and a sternly worded letter? Perhaps a consignment of umbrellas to shield the dead from rain? The cynic in me, which is to say the entirety of my being, suspects it means a few more missiles with a Union Jack painted on them, because nothing says ‘we stand with you’ like a bit of ordnance with your national colours.

Let us examine this farce with the scrutiny it deserves. The ceasefire was always a unicorn: beautiful, mythical, and prone to being shot down by a reality that runs on diesel and grievance. Russia’s drones buzz overhead like mechanised locusts, guided by satellite and spite. They do not discriminate. They do not negotiate. They simply explode. And 13 families are now learning what it’s like to receive that knock at the door, the one that comes with a telegram and a void.

Meanwhile, in the hallowed halls of Westminster, the government has convened to do what it does best: talk. Words, words, and more words, each one buffed to a high shine, each one utterly useless to the people huddled in a basement in Kharkiv. The UK’s pledge is a palliative, a sugar pill for a bullet wound. It is the diplomatic equivalent of clapping for the NHS during a pandemic; it makes the clapper feel virtuous, but the patient remains on a ventilator.

I have seen this play before. The cycle is eternal. Ceasefire, violation, outrage, pledge. Ceasefire, violation, outrage, pledge. It’s Groundhog Day with extra corpses. The only thing that changes is the body count and the flavour of ministerial platitudes. Today’s flavour: ‘We will do whatever it takes, for as long as it takes.’ Which translates to: ‘We will send some hardware, issue some statements, and then move on to the next crisis when the news cycle demands it.’

The truth is grim and simple: Russia does not care about ceasefires. Britain cares only enough to avoid looking complicit. And the people of Ukraine are left to pick up the pieces of an agreement that was never worth the paper it was printed on. The drones will keep flying. The pledges will keep coming. And the deaths will keep happening, each one a footnote in the grand, bloody ledger of geopolitical theatre.

So raise a glass (of gin, ideally) to the new support. May it be ‘fresh’ indeed. Fresh like the graves being dug as I write this. Fresh like the tears of diplomats who claim to be shocked, shocked, that this has happened. Because nothing says ‘solidarity’ like a never-ending loop of horror and hollow promises. Cheers.