The artist Andy Warhol once commented that everybody gets their 15 minutes of fame. In the last few weeks, isolated pockets of Ukrainians dotted around the world will have ticked this off their bucket lists.

In one local backwater in the UK, the town council organised a vigil (what else?) for the Ukraine, which drew a bijoux posse of Saturday morning shoppers who gathered while the town’s sole Ukrainian residents, a middle-aged couple, pressed the flesh with passers-by.

This despondent duo finally stood, hands on hearts, to sing the Ukrainian national anthem, or what was presumed to be the national tune. In the background, a Ukrainian flag fluttered atop a flaky flagpole while grown men and women stood sombre, presumably more perturbed by fashioning a convincing display of concern than any likely chemical attack on Whogivesafuckistan.

At least they had their left-over candles from the recent Sarah Everard gigs, so this was an altogether cost-neutral affair.

Presumably, nobody thought of a whip around for two AK-47s and two tickets for Kiev so that the couple could crank out some real solidarity in the struggle, but I’m sure that’s next on the list.

Yeah, right. More chicken Kiev, anyone?

The hapless couple on centre stage — and by being the only Ukrainians in the village at only a slightly more elevated status than the only gays — had of course stumbled into the bonkers slacktivist playpen and had inadvertently become pert symbols of the very dork diesel powering the modern psyche.

Fawning idolatry.

Whether it’s Mandela, Princess Diana, Jacinda Hardon, or any other hot ticket for a social Velcro ball, nothing beats identifying a figure for the moronic masses to slavishly follow. Now, they’re literally slavishly following a Slav, irrespective of his merits and faults.

On the latter, there are purportedly many. Until this incursion by Moscow, his personal ratings had been as low as a row of Kharkiv domestic dwellings. Indeed, a poll had suggested that 62% opposed his re-election, and many insist that the country is beset by corruption – much of it sited close to Mr Beanski himself. Furthermore, the bloke has a generally fractious relationship with the press unless they are smiling upon his soundbites, and he is not that keen on the notion of democratic opposition.

In brief, he’s something of a twat, but he’s a twat in opposition to a little beady-eyed baldy who chucks Polonium about in cafés – a fact which allows the concentration of whingeing droids to comfortably slip into post-fact, ignorant bliss.

That brings us back to the peak bandwaggoning, do-gooding, do-little, little Britain and the singular good luck of Mr and Mrs Nunchuck – the archetypal weapons of mass instruction and the closest the town will get to hiring a stand-up Volodymyr look-a-like-ee.

Take your 15 minutes of fame and your position in the game.

Everybody else can carry on in ‘solidarity’ until women, gays, trannies, the EU, or black lives matter again.