LONDON. In a development that has surprised absolutely nobody with a working knowledge of geopolitics and a pulse, the United States and Iran have resumed their favourite pastime: accusing each other of violating a ceasefire that was fragile as a gin glass at a Tory fundraiser. The ceasefire, which barely lasted longer than a British summer, has reportedly unravelled faster than a cheap suit in a monsoon.
Sources say the first shots (of blame, not bullets, though bullets are expected any moment now) were fired when Washington alleged Tehran was playing ‘dodge the agreement’ with its proxies. Iran, as is its custom, responded with the diplomatic equivalent of sticking out its tongue and blaming ‘Great Satan’ for everything from the collapse to the price of pistachios in Isfahan. Meanwhile, British intelligence, looking on with the weary resignation of a barman at closing time, is monitoring ‘Gulf stability’ with all the enthusiasm of a man tasked with watching paint dry on a rainy Tuesday.
The whole shebang is a masterclass in the theatre of the absurd. One half expects the UN to step in any minute now with a sternly worded memo and a suggestion that everyone just sits down, has a nice cup of tea, and discusses things like rational adults. But this is realpolitik, not a kaffeeklatsch. And in realpolitik, nobody passes the biscuits.
Here in Blighty, we watch these shenanigans with detached amusement, secure in the knowledge that our greatest contributions to global conflict these days are the occasional stirring of the pot and a suggestion that everyone calm down and perhaps form a committee. But do not be fooled. Underneath the tweed and the stiff upper lips, there is a cold, hard calculation. Because when the Gulf starts bubbling, it tends to boil over right into our petrol tanks.
And so the charade continues. Escalating rhetoric, finger-pointing, and the distinct sound of a powder keg being tenderly tapped. In the game of nations, this is not a ceasefire. It is a prelude. With gin. And we are all just here for the soundtrack.
Because when the doves of peace are really just pigeons in white paint, you know the true fowl is yet to come.
