In a development that has sent shivers of cautious optimism down the collective spine of the international community, the United States and Iran have emerged from talks with what the British Foreign Office euphemistically describes as ‘encouraging progress.’ I, for one, am encouraged that the word ‘progress’ hasn’t been prefixed with ‘limited,’ ‘modest,’ or ‘spectacularly improbable.’ The British-led diplomatic push, orchestrated by a man whose job title likely includes the phrase ‘Special Envoy for Things That Might Explode,’ has apparently yielded a roadmap. A roadmap to what, you ask? Well, your guess is as good as mine, but I’m betting it involves a lot of righteous hand-wringing and very expensive mineral water sipped from crystal glasses in Geneva hotel rooms.
Let’s be clear: ‘encouraging progress’ is diplomatic code for ‘we haven’t gone home yet, and nobody has threatened to annex a neighbouring country.’ It’s the geopolitical equivalent of a doctor saying, ‘The patient is stable, but we’re still not sure if the tumour is benign or just very lazy.’ The Iranians, those masters of the long game, have no doubt deployed their finest negotiators: men who can recite the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action backwards while simultaneously spinning a plate on a stick. Meanwhile, the American delegation, fresh from a domestic political circus that would make Caligula blush, are trying to remember where they left their credibility.
But fear not, dear reader, for Britain has stepped in. Yes, the nation that gave the world the steam engine, the Spitfire, and the lukewarm cup of tea has volunteered to mediate. Because nothing says ‘nuclear stability’ quite like a country that can’t decide whether to stay in its own economic union. The British approach, as ever, is to smile politely, mumble something about ‘shared values,’ and hope everyone forgets that their own nuclear deterrent is technically on a continuous-at-sea patrol that could be foiled by a particularly aggressive seagull.
The talks, held in a venue so sterile it could double as a lab for studying the effects of boredom on diplomats, have reportedly focused on ‘confidence-building measures.’ This is UN-speak for ‘we did a little dance, they did a little dance, and we all agreed to hire a cleaner for the room.’ Specifically, Iran may agree to cap its uranium enrichment at a level that makes bombs harder to build, while the US may offer sanctions relief that doesn’t actually relieve anything because the Treasury Department has found a loophole in the loophole. It’s like watching two drunks try to arm-wrestle underwater.
But let’s not trivialise. This is serious. The situation could escalate into a conflict that would make the Syrian civil war look like a neighbourhood disagreement over a hedge. Yet here we are, placing our hopes in the hands of men who wear lapel pins and talk in acronyms. I say we should be more honest. The next round of talks should be held in a pub. No, not for the alcohol – for the atmosphere. In a pub, you can’t hide behind briefing papers. You have to look each other in the eye and say, ‘Look, mate, we both know you’re going to go home and tweet something provocative. Can we at least pretend to care?’
And what of the nuclear scientists? Those poor souls, toiling away in underground facilities, their life’s work reduced to a bargaining chip. They’re probably wondering why they spent decades getting PhDs in particle physics when a guy with a combover and a bad tie can undo it all with a signature. But that’s the absurdity of our age: we let the political class play with the big red button while the experts are told to ‘stay in their lane.’
So, as the diplomats file out of yet another windowless room, blinking in the Swiss sunlight, we are left with ‘encouraging progress.’ I’m encouraged that nobody has launched a missile. I’m encouraged that the word ‘imminent’ wasn’t used. But I’m not encouraged enough to put the kettle on. That would require a breakthrough – and breakthroughs, my friends, are as rare as a sober politician. Until then, I’ll be here, refreshing my Twitter feed, gin in hand, wondering if we’re all just characters in a very elaborate, very expensive, and very dangerous farce.