In a move that has stunned absolutely nobody with a functioning cerebral cortex, His Majesty’s Government has demanded an emergency United Nations session following Iran’s latest missile tantrum directed at Israel. Because nothing says ‘solving the problem’ quite like gathering a room full of diplomats who couldn’t agree on the colour of the carpet if their pensions depended on it.
Let me paint you a picture. The ayatollahs, those jolly fellows who believe the 7th century is a lifestyle choice rather than a historical period, decided to remind the world that they have a firework collection that would make Guy Fawkes blush. A barrage of ballistic missiles rained down on the Holy Land, turning the sky into a rather unsightly impressionist painting of smoke and panic. Israel’s Iron Dome, bless its silicon heart, did its level best to play a real-life game of Space Invaders. But when you’re facing a salvo that could make a North Korean general jealous, even the best technology starts to look like a sieve.
Now enter stage left: Britain. Oh, brave Britain. Standing tall, chin out, monocle firmly in place, demanding an emergency session of the UN Security Council. Because what better time to engage in international bureaucratic theatre than when missiles are still warm and the rubble is still smoking? I can already see the British Ambassador to the UN, Dame Barbara Woodward, polishing her glasses and adopting the tone of a headmistress having to tell the rowdy boys off for the upteenth time. ‘This is simply unacceptable,’ she will say. ‘The international community must act with urgency and resolve.’ Yes, because past UN actions on Iran have been such a rousing success. I recall the last round of sanctions made the mullahs so cross they tightened their turbans and built more centrifuges. That technique is working a treat.
The Foreign Office, that magnificent palace of pinstriped futility, has issued a statement that reads like a drunk AI trained on diplomatic clichés. ‘We condemn in the strongest possible terms,’ it drones, ‘this escalation and call for de-escalation.’ Well, gosh, why didn’t someone think of that earlier? De-escalation. It’s so simple. Just ask everyone to chill out. I’m sure the Iranians, seeing the British request, will immediately unload their missile launchers and take up flower arranging. After all, nothing placates a theocratic regime like a strongly worded letter.
What truly tickles my spleen is the sheer predictability of it all. Britain, a nation that can’t even keep its own trains running on time, is going to lecture Iran on responsible behaviour. We have a Prime Minister who changes his mind more often than I change my socks (which, to be fair, is not often, as I am a journalist and hygiene is a foreign concept). We have a foreign policy that has the consistency of a jellyfish in a hurricane. And yet, we are the ones calling for order. It would be hilarious if it weren’t so tragic.
Let us not forget the context. Iran, a state that funds proxies like they’re going out of fashion, launches missiles at a nuclear-armed nation with a medieval grievance. Israel, a nation that has the survival instincts of a cornered badger, will inevitably respond with disproportionate force, and the cycle of violence will continue like a demented waltz. And Britain, the plucky island nation that once ruled a quarter of the globe, will hold an emergency session, issue a statement, and go back to worrying about the price of gin. Because that’s what we do. We talk. We deliberate. We form committees. And the bombs keep falling.
But fear not, dear reader. For the UN will convene. There will be speeches. There will be handshakes. There will be declarations of ‘deep concern’ and ‘unwavering commitment.’ And then, everyone will adjourn for lunch, and the missiles will keep flying. Because that is the dance. That is the theatre. And Britain, bless its archaic soul, is a master of the pointless gesture.
So, raise a glass of lukewarm tap water (the gin’s run out) to our leaders: the men and women who believe that a UN resolution is a cure for a missile attack. Cheers, you magnificent bastards. Keep performing. The world is your stage, and the audience is sick to death of the same tired play.
