In a move that has simultaneously baffled, amused, and terrified anyone with even a passing familiarity with how spying works, President Donald Trump has appointed a former housing official to oversee the entire United States intelligence community. The news hit Whitehall like a gin-soaked kipper to the face, leaving MI6 scrambling to recalibrate their relationship with an ally that now appears to be run by a man whose primary qualification for running spy networks is that he once successfully evicted a family from a condemned flat in Des Moines.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the head of the CIA, the NSA, and every other three-letter agency that keeps the free world from descending into cyber-chaos will now report to a chap whose previous experience of covert operations involved persuading tenants to pay rent. The appointment of this... individual (and I use the term loosely) has prompted the Foreign Office to issue a terse statement about 'continued cooperation,' which in diplomatic code means 'we are now drinking heavily at lunch.'
The Anglo-American intelligence relationship, once the bedrock of global security, is now teetering on the brink of farce. Imagine James Bond reporting to Basil Fawlty, and you are halfway there. Our cousins across the pond have apparently decided that the best person to understand Russian disinformation campaigns is someone who can tell you the difference between drywall and plasterboard. The logic, presumably, is that spycraft is just like real estate: location, location, location, and bugging devices in the chandelier.
But let us not be too hasty in our mockery. Perhaps this is a visionary move. After all, who better to track the movements of terrorists than a man who has spent years tracking the movements of squatters? The tools of the trade are surprisingly similar: surveillance, eviction notices, and the occasional threat of lawful action. And think of the cost savings! Instead of expensive black-ops drones, we can use Housing Department vans. Instead of encrypted satellite communications, we can use the post. The possibilities for incompetence are endless.
Of course, this has naturally raised questions about the Special Relationship. When the British Prime Minister calls the White House, will the man on the other end be able to tell a defector from a squatter? Will he know that 'Moscow' is not a type of wallpaper? The chattering classes in Westminster are aghast, but the reality is that our own intelligence services are not exactly gleaming paragons of competence. Remember the Iraq WMD dossier? Exactly. So perhaps we should reserve judgment until we see whether this housing official can, at the very least, successfully locate Osama bin Laden's utility bills.
In the meantime, I have already stockpiled gin. Not because I am a chronic alcoholic, but because the world has become a surrealist painting, and the only sensible response is to find the nearest bar and drink until the pigeons start speaking in iambic pentameter. The Anglo-American intelligence ties may be tested, but my liver is ready for anything. Cheers.
