The saga of Middle Eastern geopolitics, that great theatre of the absurd where the curtain never falls, has taken another lurch into the farcical. British intelligence, those grey men in grey suits with their grey warnings, have issued a communiqué: the recent escalation between Israel and Iran has, in their assessment, actually strengthened Tehran's negotiating position. This is a bit like being punched in the face and then being told you now have the upper hand in negotiating the terms of the next punch.
Let us examine this delicate ballet of brinkmanship, shall we? The dance began, as these things do, with a whiff of cordite and a flurry of official statements nobody reads. Israel, the plucky David with a nuclear slingshot, engaged in some surgical strikes on Iranian assets in Syria. Iran, the larger, slower Goliath with a talent for asymmetrical spite, retaliated with a volley of rockets and a great deal of chest-thumping. The predictable result: the rest of the world, clutching its collective pearls, emitted a high-pitched tweet of alarm.
But here is the rub, the twist in the tale, the moment the cynical observer slaps their forehead and reaches for the Gordon's. Tehran has apparently come out of this smelling like a rose garden in a perfume factory. According to the spooks, Iran now has a de facto stronger hand at any negotiating table. Why? Because they have demonstrated a capacity for escalation that makes the West's preferred medicine (sanctions, stern letters, and the occasional drone strike) seem as effective as a paper umbrella in a monsoon.
The logic is exquisitely perverse. By rattling their sabres and actually swinging them a bit, Iran has reminded everyone that they can still cause a very large, very messy puddle of instability. And the West, with its hangover of wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, has precisely zero appetite for another splash. So Tehran gets to sit down at the talks and say, with a thin smile: "You want me to behave? Then you must pay. And not with your funny little paper promises, but with real concessions."
British intelligence, ever ready to deliver bad news with a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit, has warned that this instability could spread faster than a rumour in a village post office. The risk being that the whole rotten edifice, the carefully maintained balance of terror, could come crashing down. Not that our esteemed politicians care. They are too busy posing for photographs with stern expressions and slightly too-tight suits.
Meanwhile, the rest of us are supposed to go about our business, sipping our warm beverages and pretending that the world is not being run by a bunch of overgrown schoolchildren playing with matches in a petrol station. The markets have had a minor wobble, of course. Gold ticked up. Oil ticked up. Everything ticked up, like an anxious heartbeat.
And what is the proper response to this latest drama? To note it with a weary sigh, perhaps. To appreciate the sheer, grotesque comedy of it all. For there is nothing quite like a conflict between two nations who both believe their God has a better sense of real estate to remind one that reason is a thin veneer over a cauldron of madness. The only sane response is to pour yourself a stiff drink, preferably a gin and tonic, and toast the ongoing circus of humanity. To the negotiators, the generals, the diplomats, the pyromaniacs all: may your cocktails be as strong as your delusions.
