In a development that has sent a ripple of panic through the chai-and-scones brigade at the Foreign Office, Burkina Faso has formally severed diplomatic relations with France, its former colonial overlord. The news, delivered with the kind of theatrical finality usually reserved for the end of a particularly tedious dinner party, has left Britain’s mandarins frantically dusting off their pith helmets and wondering if somewhere, somehow, a forgotten Commonwealth application might be lurking in a filing cabinet.
Let us be clear: this is not a story about freedom. This is a story about the eternal, tragicomic dance of great powers who refuse to admit they no longer matter. France, after decades of pretending its 'Francafrique' policy was anything other than a glorified protection racket, has been given the boot by Ouagadougou. The Burkinabè, fed up with being treated like the unpaid interns of the global stage, have decided to try their luck without a Parisian chaperone. Good for them. Bad for the French embassy’s wine budget.
But where France sees humiliation, Britain sees opportunity. And when I say opportunity, I mean the kind of desperate, thirsty lunge towards relevance that you normally associate with a man trying to catch the last bus home after three gins too many. The Commonwealth, that curious institution which exists somewhere between a nostalgic book club and a tax haven for minor royalty, has suddenly found itself thrust into the limelight. Cue the sound of 54 nations collectively adjusting their monocles.
Here’s the thing about the Commonwealth: nobody quite knows what it does, but everyone agrees it’s terribly nice. It’s like a church that no longer believes in God but still enjoys the pageantry. And now, with Burkina Faso looking for new friends, the UK is poised to offer a warm handshake, a photo opportunity with a minor royal, and maybe a slightly patronising trade deal. The message is clear: 'We may not have ruled you directly, but we’ve got excellent gin and a very good line in condescending grammar instructions.'
Of course, the irony is thick enough to spread on toast. France’s loss is Britain’s… well, something. Let’s not pretend that the UK’s own colonial past was any less grubby. We invented the concentration camp during the Boer War, for heaven’s sake. But the beauty of British diplomacy is its ability to present itself as the benevolent uncle who only occasionally steals your pocket money. The Commonwealth is perfect for this: it allows us to maintain the illusion of influence without the tedious responsibility of actual empire.
Will Burkina Faso actually join? Almost certainly not anytime soon. They have their own regional alliances, their own ambitions, and probably a healthy suspicion of anyone offering aid with a Union Jack on the box. But the fantasy is delicious. Imagine it: Minister for Commonwealth Affairs, Sir James Whatshisname, jetting into Ouagadougou with a briefcase full of trade statistics and a poorly rehearsed phrase in Moore. The headlines write themselves. 'Britain’s Soft Power Triumph!' 'Africa Looks to London!' 'Royal Visit to Boost Trade and Tourism!'
In reality, this is about perception. It’s about Britain trying to convince itself, and anyone still listening, that Brexit was not a catastrophic act of self-sabotage. That we still matter. That the sun, if not setting on the empire, is at least thinking about coming out from behind a cloud. The Burkina Faso situation is a gift: a chance to appear relevant, magnanimous, and historically aware, all at once.
But let’s not kid ourselves. The real winners here are the gin manufacturers. Every time a former colony looks vaguely in our direction, a partnership is formed between Downing Street and the London Docklands distillers. I’ll drink to that. In fact, I am drinking to that. Right now. Cheers.
And as for France? They can console themselves with the thought that at least they still have a decent baguette. Though with Brexit Britain’s baking standards, we might be coming for that too.
This is Barnaby Thistlethwaite, filing from a bar in St James’s, wondering if you can still get a proper pink gin without having to explain what the word 'pink' means to a barista.
