In a move that has sent tremors through the diplomatic establishment, British trade negotiators are reportedly tracking Donald Trump’s visit to India with the desperate enthusiasm of a man watching his last gin and tonic slide off a bar tray. Yes, the Prime Minister’s trade envoys have been spotted huddled over satellite images of New Delhi, muttering incantations about most-favoured-nation status and tariff reductions, as if the ghost of Adam Smith had taken up residence in their briefcases.
Let us be clear. This is not a trade mission. This is a diplomatic Hail Mary thrown by a government whose Brexit dividend has turned out to be a scratch card that says “sorry, try again later.” The frosty relations between London and New Delhi, which for years have been colder than a December morning in Aberdeen, are supposedly beginning to thaw. And what is the catalyst? A man whose own trade policy resembles a game of fridge-cold roulette played in a casino staffed entirely by lawyers.
Ah, yes. Donald J. Trump, the orange-tinted phoenix of American populism, has descended upon India. His itinerary includes a visit to the world’s largest cricket stadium, a state banquet with more curries than a Calcutta street market, and, one assumes, a series of impromptu tariffs announced via Twitter. The British negotiators, meanwhile, have been reduced to the role of seagulls circling a cruise ship, hoping to snatch a discarded chip. They are not even pretending to have a plan. They are simply following the trail of chaos.
But let us not be too cruel. After all, is this not the very essence of post-Brexit Britain? A nation that once ruled a quarter of the globe now reduced to tailing a reality TV star in the hope that a few crumbs of trade might fall from his table. The irony is so thick you could spread it on a Chapati. One imagines the British delegation’s briefing notes: “Smile and nod when he mentions Churchill. Avoid eye contact when he talks about his wall. And for the love of all that is holy, do not mention the NHS.”
Meanwhile, Prime Minister Modi, a man whose smile could melt an iceberg, welcomes Trump with garlands of marigolds and a stadium full of waving flags. The optics are impeccable. The substance? Questionable. India wants investment. America wants to sell weapons. Britain wants... what? A seat at the table? A warm handshake? A photo opportunity that might be repurposed for a future election leaflet?
The truth is that nobody in Whitehall has the faintest idea what they are doing. The trade negotiators are following Trump’s jet like lost puppies, hoping that Ram Nath Kovind or some other official will take pity on them. They have been reduced to tweeting emojis of Indian flags and posting videos of themselves eating samosas with what can only be described as desperation. It is pathetic. It is glorious. It is the most British thing since the invention of queuing.
As I write this, sipping a gin that tastes faintly of regret, I cannot help but wonder: what would Lord Nelson think? Or Winston Churchill? Or, indeed, any of the great British statesmen who once negotiated with empires? They would probably laugh. Then they would pour themselves a stiff drink. Then they would fire the entire delegation and start again.
But we do not have time for that. The clock is ticking. The trade deals are unsigned. And somewhere in a hotel room in Delhi, a British civil servant is probably Google-translating a menu in the hope of finding a word for “preferential tariff.” Godspeed, you brave fools. Godspeed.
