Word reaches this gin-soaked desk that Xi Jinping is packing his silk pyjamas for a rare jaunt to Pyongyang, just as the UK unveils its latest pantomime of naval muscle-flexing in the Indo-Pacific. One can almost hear the diplomatic tumbleweeds rolling across Downing Street as Starmer’s cabinet scrambles for a foothold in a region where China’s shadow is as long as my thirst for a decent G&T.
First, the Xi-Kim summit. A meeting of two men who have turned the concept of ‘leadership’ into a grotesque caricature of power. Xi, the eternal helmsman, jetting off to bestow brotherly affection upon Kim Jong Un, the world’s most pampered hermit. Their agenda? Probably a masterclass in oppression, a swap of sinister moustache-twirling tips, and a shared appreciation for ballistic missile silhouettes at sunset. The real question is: who will out-shaman the other? Kim’s got the haircut of a deranged schoolboy, but Xi’s got that thousand-yard stare that says, ‘I’ve seen my citizens’ tears, and I found them zesty.’
And then there’s the UK, waddling into the Indo-Pacific like a retired colonel with a crumpled map and a bad knee. Oh, the British Empire’s ghost is still rattling its chains in Whitehall! We’re sending a frigate to ‘strengthen ties’ while the Chinese Navy yawns and builds another artificial island. The government’s strategy seems to be: smile politely, wave a union jack, and hope nobody notices our GDP is smaller than Italy’s. Meanwhile, Xi and Kim are carving up influence like a Peking duck, and we’re still arguing over whether to order the set menu.
But let’s not be too harsh. After all, the UK’s Indo-Pacific tilt is less about strategic ambition and more about a desperate need to feel relevant. It’s the foreign policy equivalent of a middle-aged man buying a sports car. ‘Look at me,’ says the Foreign Office. ‘I’m still powerful! I can still make trade deals!’ Except the car is a beat-up Ford Fiesta, and it’s leaking oil. And the deals? Mostly with countries that see us as a quaint museum piece.
Xi, meanwhile, is playing chess while the West plays checkers. A visit to Pyongyang isn’t just a photo op; it’s a signal. To Russia, to South Korea, to the US. It says: China’s backyard is not for hire. Kim might be a petulant brat, but he’s China’s petulant brat. And the UK, with its misplaced nostalgia for the Raj, is left muttering about ‘rules-based orders’ while Xi and Kim share a toast to the new world disorder.
The irony? The UK’s Indo-Pacific strategy is arguably more popular in Pyongyang than in London. Kim probably loves it. Every ship the Royal Navy sends just reinforces his narrative: the West is weak, divided, and clutching at straws. Meanwhile, Xi gets to play the benevolent giant, offering ‘friendship’ while tightening the screws on North Korea’s economy.
So as Xi’s plane touches down in Pyongyang, I’ll be here, raising a glass to the absurdity of it all. To the hermit king and the helmsman. To the UK’s delusions of grandeur. And to the hope that someone, somewhere, spills tea on a critical document. Because in this farce, the only thing more predictable than the geopolitics is my hangover.
