In a development that has sent shivers of schadenfreude down the collective spine of the British establishment, John Bolton, the former National Security Advisor with a moustache so magnificent it should have been classified, has pleaded guilty to a charge of failing to properly archive his fever dreams and doodles of nuclear strikes. The man who once promised to “destroy” North Korea with the fury of a thousand suns now finds himself shackled to a plea deal, his legal destiny now resting in the hands of a judge who may or may not have a sense of humour.
But let us not waste ink on Bolton's pyrrhic predicament. The real story, as always, is the smug satisfaction emanating from the halls of Vauxhall Cross, where MI6 operatives are polishing their monocles and muttering “I told you so” in a variety of posh accents. British intelligence protocols, it appears, have been deemed the gold standard by some unnamed, probably very grateful, American spooks. Yes, while Bolton was busy writing a tell-all memoir that made his former boss look like a petulant toddler with nuclear codes, the British were quietly taking notes on how to properly shred documents without leaving a trace.
This is the kind of news that makes you want to line your birdcage with the front page of the Daily Mail. The sheer absurdity of it all. We have a man who once opined that the Geneva Conventions were “a bit much” now reduced to begging for leniency. Meanwhile, across the pond, the government is reportedly considering giving medals to every civil servant who can hold their tea properly. The irony is so thick you could spread it on a scone.
But let us not forget the underlying rot. This is the same country that gave us the chumocracy, the partygate scandal, and a prime minister who once said “frackers” with a straight face. Yet here we are, lauding our intelligence services as if they haven't been caught red-handed torturing secrets out of innocent computers. The gold standard, indeed. More like a brass plaque on a public lavatory.
Bolton's fall from grace is a cautionary tale about the perils of treating national security like a game of Risk. He thought he could play the game, but the board was rigged. And now, as he waits for sentencing, one can only imagine the conversations happening in Whitehall. They are probably clinking glasses of lukewarm chardonnay, celebrating their supposed moral superiority while ignoring the fact that our own government has been caught in so many lies it's a miracle they haven't been forced to resign by popular demand.
In the end, this story is not about Bolton. It is about the hubris of the American empire and the pathetic gloating of a former one. The British intelligence community can pat themselves on the back all they want, but we all know that the best they can do is ensure the Queen's corgis don't accidentally leak state secrets. Meanwhile, the real news is that a man with a face like a constipated walrus is finally facing consequences for his actions. And for that, we should be grateful. But let's not get carried away. There is still plenty of rot to go around.
