In a move that has delighted cocktail lounges from Whitehall to Oak Ridge, the UN’s top nuclear inspector has been dispatched to Iran to squint at a few centrifuges and generally look stern. This follows a 'war-avoidance deal' brokered by His Majesty’s Government, which appears to involve a great deal of hand-wringing and premium-strength Earl Grey.
The UN’s Rafael Grossi, a man whose job description reads 'professional worrywart with a Geiger counter,' will be poking around sites that Iran insists are 'purely peaceful, like a Quaker meeting, if Quakers spun uranium at hypersonic speeds.' The deal, stitched together by the UK Foreign Office (a department that specialises in making escalatory statements sound like polite suggestions), aims to prevent the current shouting match from turning into a fireworks display.
Let us parse this absurdity. The UK, a nation that cannot decide if it wants to be a global policeman or a slightly moody island fortress, has somehow brokered a 'war deal.' This is like a man who has set fire to his own kitchen being called in to negotiate a ceasefire between two warring grease fires. The deal is supposed to freeze Iran’s nuclear programme at a point where it is technically capable of building a bomb but has promised not to, which is the diplomatic equivalent of a toddler saying 'I’m not touching the cookie jar' while standing inside it.
Grossi’s inspection will no doubt involve a lot of clipboard-holding, some pointed questions about 'centrifuge cascades,' and possibly a sternly-worded memo about 'uranium enrichment levels.' The Iranians will smile, offer some mint tea, and deny everything with the earnestness of a man who has just been caught photocopying his own arse. The world will hold its breath, and then promptly forget about it until the next crisis.
Meanwhile, the UK government is patting itself on the back for 'de-escalation,' a term that in diplomatic circles means 'we’ve managed to kick the can a few inches further down the road before it explodes.' The deal’s true purpose, as every gin-sodden punter knows, is to allow everyone to attend more cocktail parties where they can talk about how close they came to Armageddon, while nibbling on vol-au-vents.
In conclusion, the UN nuclear chief is off to Iran to not find anything, the UK is playing the role of the world’s most optimistic marriage counsellor, and the rest of us are left to wonder whether we should stockpile baked beans or just enjoy the show. After all, if you can’t laugh at the end of the world, you’re probably not paying attention.
