In a development so predictable it could have been scripted by a committee of depressive clairvoyants, the British Foreign Office today upgraded its default setting from ‘mild concern’ to ‘advanced fretting’ over the Israeli-Iranian non-tennis match currently being played out across the Middle East. The government’s official position, delivered via a press release that smelled faintly of stale coffee and existential dread, warns that the latest flare-up strengthens Tehran’s hand. Because, of course, nothing says ‘strengthened hand’ like a nation whose leadership communicates exclusively through apocalyptic tweets and the occasional enriched uranium sample.
Let us parse this headline with the solemnity it deserves. The British Foreign Office, that bastion of understatement and tweed, has officially declared a ‘permacrisis.’ This is the diplomatic equivalent of a teenager sighing dramatically and announcing ‘my life is over’ before retreating to a darkened room to listen to Smiths albums. The permacrisis, as defined by those who coin such terms, is a state of endless, rolling chaos, a sort of Brexit-enriched feedback loop of bad decisions and thwarted ambitions. It is the political version of a hangover that never quite lifts, a nagging sense that the world has become a very large and messy flat share with no cleaning rota.
Iran, meanwhile, is reportedly ‘strengthened’ by the exchange. This is like saying a man who has just set fire to his own house is ‘strengthened’ by the addition of a new sort of warmth. Tehran’s strategy, as far as one can discern through the fog of propaganda, involves a classic bit of geopolitical three-card monte. They launch missiles or proxies at Israel, Israel retaliates with surgical strikes and impressive displays of advanced technology, and Iran then emerges from the rubble clutching a fresh batch of negotiable leverage. It is a game of escalation poker where the stakes are regional stability and the chips are human lives, but the players are all wearing sunglasses and refusing to show their hands.
Israel, for its part, responds with the precision and restraint of a man using a scalpel to perform open-heart surgery while simultaneously swatting a wasp. The country’s military capabilities are, by now, almost tediously impressive, a demonstration of ingenuity born of necessity and a desire to never again be caught with metaphorical trousers down. But each strike, each retaliation, each round of this grim dance, pushes the region further into a state of permanent tension. It is a landscape where news outlets have pre-written obituaries for peace, and diplomats earn their salaries by finding new euphemisms for ‘we’re all doomed.’
The British Foreign Office’s warning is, therefore, both accurate and entirely useless. It is the diplomatic version of a weather forecast that says ‘rain, followed by more rain, then a brief interlude of cataclysm.’ The permacrisis is not a warning, it is a diagnosis. We are all passengers on a flight that has been indefinitely delayed, the pilot making vague announcements over the intercom about ‘unforeseen circumstances’ while the engines cough and splutter. And the Foreign Office, with its carefully worded statements and urgent appeals for de-escalation, is the air hostess offering a complimentary packet of peanuts and a reassuring smile while the plane plummets.
In conclusion, the only thing certain in this mess is that the British Foreign Office will continue to issue warnings, the teacups will continue to rattle in Whitehall, and the rest of us will carry on refreshing news sites with the grim fatalism of people watching a slow-motion car crash. Tehran is strengthened, the permacrisis is official, and the world lurches forward. I need a drink. Preferably something distilled in a country not currently engaged in a game of mutual assured irritation.
