In what can only be described as a catastrophic failure of operational security, John Bolton, the man with a moustache so bushy it could hide a state secret, has pleaded guilty to leaking classified information. The former national security adviser to Donald Trump, a man whose very existence seems to be a fever dream of geopolitical chaos, has admitted to transmitting sensitive material to a publisher, presumably hoping to turn his memoirs into a bestseller rather than a court exhibit.
The charge, which sounds like something from a Graham Greene novel meets a farcical Whitehall farce, involves the unauthorised disclosure of classified information. Bolton, who once compared himself to a 'nuclear football' without the protective casing, has now demonstrated that even the most hardened Washington insiders can be undone by their own ego and a dodgy email server.
This comes as the UK, in a state of prim and proper panic, warns its allies about the perils of data security. One can almost hear the collective tutting from Whitehall as they issue directives about 'best practices' and 'secure communications.' It is a scene of such bureaucratic irony that one might suspect it was scripted by a committee of spoof writers. The UK, a nation whose own intelligence agencies have had their fair share of data breaches, now lectures others about the sanctity of classified material. It is like a reformed drunkard giving a lecture on the virtues of water.
Meanwhile, the Trump camp, ever the circus of chaos, has been notably silent. Perhaps they are too busy declassifying documents with a sharpie or accidentally revealing nuclear secrets on Twitter. The irony is thick enough to cut with a Brexit razor. Bolton, who once advocated for bombing half the world into a new stone age, now finds himself in the legal stone age, facing up to 10 years in prison for his 'misguided literary ambitions.'
This entire episode is a masterclass in the absurdity of modern political life. A man who has spent decades in the shadowy corridors of power, surrounded by secrets and lies, undone by a simple act of digital incontinence. It sends a clear message: if you are going to leak classified material, at least have the decency to use a dead drop and a fake moustache, rather than a publisher with a print run.
As the UK warns its allies, one can only hope that the message gets through. But let's be honest, in the world of espionage and politics, the only thing more reliable than a leak is a politician's promise. And we all know how that usually ends up.
