In a twist that would make a soap opera writer blush with envy, John Bolton, the man whose moustache could curdle milk at fifty paces, has pleaded guilty to mishandling classified documents. Yes, the very same Bolton who once boasted of wanting to bomb Iran's nuclear facilities into the Stone Age has been brought low by a pile of papers he forgot to lock in a filing cabinet. The UK intelligence community, ever the dutiful cousin, is watching this spectacle with the sort of rapt attention usually reserved for a particularly gripping episode of 'Line of Duty.' Their tea has gone cold, but who cares? There's a former national security advisor in trouble, and that's the only warm thing in the room.
Let us savour the irony. A man who spent his career treating state secrets like confetti at a ticker-tape parade now finds himself the star of his own legal drama. The charges: he walked out of the White House with classified materials, perhaps to use as napkins at his next hawkish dinner party. The plea: guilty, with the kind of reluctant acceptance one might show when admitting to stealing the last biscuit from the tin. He will avoid jail, because the American justice system has a soft spot for men who look like they could be the baddie in a James Bond film.
Meanwhile, across the pond, the British intelligence establishment is taking notes. They see this as another example of American exceptionalism: only in the land of the free could a man whose job was to protect secrets become the very embodiment of their betrayal. The irony is not lost on MI5, who are probably updating their own filing systems as we speak. They understand that when the chap who sold you the keys to the nuclear codes turns out to be a blabbermouth, it's time to change the locks.
But let us not neglect the broader farce. Trump, who once called Bolton a 'stone-cold loser,' must be cackling into his Diet Coke. Bolton, who wrote a tell-all book that painted the former president as a bumbling buffoon, now sits in the dock like a man whose parachute failed. The universe has a sense of humour, albeit a dark one. And the great British public? They are divided. Half are outraged that such a man could be trusted with anything more sensitive than a Tesco Clubcard. The other half are simply relieved that, for once, the scandal involves someone else's government.
So raise a glass of warm gin (the only kind available in a newsroom that can't afford a fridge) to John Bolton. A man who spent his life cultivating an image of unassailable gravitas, only to be brought down by the very tools of his trade. His guilt is a small piece of justice in a world where the powerful rarely face consequences. But do not expect tears. This is satire, not a eulogy. The only thing Bolton has mishandled more than classified documents is his own legacy.
