The St Petersburg International Economic Forum, that annual gathering of oligarchs, apparatchiks, and men who look like they’ve been pickled in their own ego, was supposed to be a showcase of Russian resilience. Instead, it became a symphony of buzzing drones. Yes, dear reader, while the suits were droning on about import substitution and the bright future of the ruble, actual drones were droning over the city’s rooftops. One might call it a metaphor, but metaphors don't usually carry explosives.
Let’s set the scene. Picture it: a hall full of men in ill-fitted suits, sweating profusely under the chandeliers, pretending that the West doesn’t exist. The keynote speaker, perhaps a man whose jaw could cut glass, is extolling the virtues of sovereign economic policy. Meanwhile, outside, a Ukrainian-made drone, or perhaps a wayward Amazon package, is politely requesting entry to the proceedings via the nearest window. The air defences, no doubt purchased from a retired circus performer, manage to down some of them. But the message is clear: the war has a long arm, and it’s not here for the canapés.
And what of the UK’s contribution to this festive mood? More sanctions, naturally. Because nothing says 'we care' like a fresh round of asset freezes and travel bans. The Foreign Office, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that now is the perfect time to remind Mr Putin that his chums in London won’t be able to buy a new yacht this season. The timing is impeccable: just as Russian businessmen are trying to convince themselves that they don’t need Swiss bank accounts, the UK slams the door on their remaining vestiges of Western luxury. It’s like cancelling someone’s Netflix subscription while their house is on fire.
But let’s not be too harsh. The forum itself was a masterclass in cognitive dissonance. Delegates nodded along to speeches about ‘technological sovereignty’ while their phones pinged with alerts about drone strikes. They clinked glasses of vodka to ‘economic independence’ even as their wallets groaned under the weight of sanctions. It was a theatre of the absurd, and the only missing element was a clown car. Oh wait, there was one: it was called the official delegation.
The real question, however, is what this means for the average Russian. Not much, I suspect. They’ll continue to queue for sugar, watch state TV with the fervour of a cult member, and pretend that the drones are just a bit of bad weather. But for the elite, those who have spent decades perfecting the art of looking the other way, the drones are a reminder that the war is not a video game. It has a nasty habit of coming home.
So, as the forum wraps up and the oligarchs retreat to their dachas, the drones will continue to buzz. And the UK will continue to tighten the screws. It’s a dance, a grim ballet of sanctions and sabotage. And in the end, the only certainty is that the bar in St Petersburg will run out of gin. A tragedy, that.
