In a development that has sent shockwaves through the corridors of power and the bars of Washington D.C., John Bolton, the former National Security Advisor with a moustache so formidable it deserves its own security clearance, has pleaded guilty to mishandling classified information.
Yes, the same Bolton who once threatened to bomb the Hague into the Stone Age has been brought low by the humble charge of failing to properly store his secrets. One can only imagine the scene: Bolton, a man who looks like he was carved from a block of Reagan-era paranoia, shuffling into a courtroom, his tie askew, his famous facial hair drooping like a wilted victory flag. The charge stems from his failure to declassify a memoir, a tome so dense with self-regard it could double as a doorstop.
Let us pause to savour the irony: a man who spent years accusing others of treason is now a convicted felon for playing fast and loose with state secrets. But fear not, dear reader. This is not a moment for despair.
It is a moment for British smugness. For while our cousins across the pond suffer the indignity of seeing their security apparatchiks exposed as bumbling amateurs, we can take comfort in the steadfast competence of MI5 and the Joint Intelligence Committee. British intelligence standards are being reaffirmed, not because we are perfect, but because we know how to keep a secret.
We do not write memoirs. We do not blab to the press. We simply sit in our draughty offices, drinking tea and filing reports that no one will ever read.
That, dear reader, is true professionalism. So let Bolton face his sentence. Let him contemplate his crimes in a prison where the gin is lukewarm and the library lacks his book.
As for us, we shall continue to enjoy the quiet satisfaction of a nation that knows how to button its lip.
