Here is a curious thing. The nation that sits atop more fossil fuel reserves than almost any other now finds itself begging for petrol. British intelligence reports that Ukraine’s strikes on Russian-occupied territories have deepened Moscow’s fuel crisis, threatening a logistical collapse that would make the Winter of 41 look like a mild inconvenience. For those of us who have spent years warning that the ‘energy superpower’ myth was a house of cards, the schadenfreude is almost too rich to bear. But let us not get carried away. The collapse of Russia’s fuel supply is not merely a tactical problem for the Kremlin. It is a cultural and economic earthquake, one that exposes the decay at the heart of a regime that has long mistaken brute force for competence.
The irony is exquisite. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine was supposed to be a swift, decisive assertion of energy dominance. Instead, it has become a quagmire that is consuming the very fuel that powers the war machine. The strikes by Kyiv’s forces, using long-range drones and missiles provided by the West, have hit refineries, storage depots, and supply lines with surgical precision. The result? A rationing system that would make a Soviet bread queue look efficient. Tanks sit idle. Trucks are abandoned. Farmers in occupied territories cannot harvest their crops because there is no diesel for the tractors. This is not a war of attrition. It is a war of stupidity. And the stupidest move of all was to believe that a nation run like a criminal enterprise could manage a modern military logistics chain.
Let us step back for a moment and consider the historical parallel. The late Roman Empire, as Gibbon noted, was undone not by barbarians at the gates but by its own internal rot. When the grain ships from Egypt stopped arriving, the imperial capital starved not because the grain was gone but because the system for distributing it had collapsed. Russia today is that same Rome. It has the resources, the territory, the manpower. What it lacks is the institutional competence to turn those assets into military power. The fuel crisis is a symptom of a deeper disease: a culture that rewards loyalty over merit, theft over efficiency, and propaganda over truth. You cannot run a modern war on Soviet nostalgia and corruption.
But here is the uncomfortable truth that the West must face. A collapsing Russia is not necessarily a good thing. A desperate Kremlin, cornered and humiliated, is more likely to lash out with nuclear threats, cyberattacks, or even a sudden escalation against NATO’s borders. The fuel crisis may be satisfying to watch, but it is a prelude to instability. The historical record is clear: empires in decline do not go quietly. They burn whatever they can on the way down. And Russia, for all its posturing, still holds a vast arsenal of weapons it would rather use than surrender.
So what is to be done? The British intelligence assessments are valuable, but they are only part of the story. The West must prepare for the fallout. That means stockpiling energy reserves, hardening critical infrastructure, and, above all, not gloating. Schadenfreude is a dangerous luxury when the other fellow still has a match. The fuel crisis in Russia is a sign of weakness, yes. But it is also a sign of volatility. And volatility, in a nuclear-armed state, is the last thing anyone should celebrate.
As for the grand historical narrative, let us not pretend this is the end of Russia. The Soviet Union collapsed, and Russia survived. The Tsars fell, and Russia survived. The Mongols came, and Russia survived. This is a resilient, grimly determined civilisation. But it is also one that is learning, painfully, that the age of cheap energy and imperial bluster is over. The petrol pinch is a lesson in humility. Whether the Kremlin learns it or not is another matter. But for the rest of us, the lesson is clear: do not mistake a bully’s roar for strength. And do not assume that a crisis in Moscow is a victory for London. History is never that simple.
