In a move that has sent shockwaves through the corridors of power and the fuel tanks of every white van man in the Home Counties, the government has announced a solemn vow: by the time the clock strikes twelve on Hogmanay, not a single drop of Russian diesel or jet fuel shall cross His Majesty's borders. This is sovereignty, ladies and gentlemen, served neat with a chaser of geopolitical muscle-flexing.
One can almost hear the collective groan from the Kremlin. Putin, presumably, will have to find a new market for his crude, perhaps trading it for a few rounds of vodka with a despot in need. But here in Blighty, the ministers are patting each other on the back, their faces flushed with the warm glow of victory achieved entirely through the medium of press releases.
Let us be clear: this is not a plan. This is a promise, a resolution, a New Year's pledge that will no doubt be followed by a swift and ignominious backslide come January 2nd, when the reality of freezing terminals and grounded flights sets in. The government's track record on such grandstanding is akin to a man promising to give up gin, only to be found three sheets to the wind by lunchtime.
The Department for Business, Energy and Industrial Strategy, in its infinite wisdom, has declared that the phase-out will be achieved through a combination of 'increased domestic production' and 'alternative supply sources'. This translates roughly to: we'll shake the magic money tree until some fracking company in the Home Counties pulls its finger out, and we'll grovel to the Norwegians for a bit more of their fine, fjord-filtered oil.
Meanwhile, the aviation industry is having conniptions. Airlines, already teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, now face the prospect of fuelling their jets with the tears of accountants and the hope of a miracle. Perhaps they can start distilling gin from potatoes and converting it into biofuel. Stranger things have happened in this madcap world.
But the real kicker is the timing. This announcement comes mere days before the new year. It is a strategic masterstroke designed to secure headlines during the silly season when the nation is too sloshed on cheap sparkling wine to notice the gaping holes in the logic. By the time January rolls around, everyone will be worrying about their tax returns and the potholes, not the provenance of their petrol.
The opposition, of course, is having a field day. Shadow ministers are tripping over each other to point out that this is nothing more than a 'gesture', a 'vanity project', a 'desperate attempt to look tough on Russia while doing absolutely naff all about the cost of living crisis'. And they're not wrong. But then again, good satire requires a straight man.
So raise a glass (preferably filled with non-Russian spirits) to the great British tradition of making bold pronouncements that feel good but do little. Here's to sovereignty, to independence, to the unshakeable belief that we can wean ourselves off the teat of the Kremlin's hydrocarbons by sheer force of will. And if it all goes pear-shaped, well, there's always fracking. Or France.
In the end, this is the kind of story that makes you proud to be a journalist. It has everything: hypocrisy, bluster, a deadline, and the certain knowledge that by next week, we'll have moved on to the next crisis. But for now, let us savour this moment of national resolve. It might be the last warm thing we feel this winter.
