In a development that has Whitehall mandarins scrambling for their emergency brandy reserves, the Iranian judiciary has confirmed the rejection of an appeal by the British couple currently languishing in an Iranian detention facility. The couple, whose names are being kept under a cone of silence by the Foreign Office (lest they accidentally give them more ideas), now face the prospect of a prolonged stay in what I imagine is a charmingly austere establishment, somewhere between a budget airline terminal and a particularly grim primary school headmaster’s office.
Sources close to the situation (read: a man in a pub who once met a diplomat) inform this column that UK diplomats are now mobilising for an “emergency intervention”. This is diplomatic code for “we’re going to ring every favour we’ve ever owed, barter with sanctions, and possibly throw in a crate of fine English tea”. The British embassy in Tehran, a building that looks like it was designed by a committee of colour-blind architects, is reportedly buzzing with the kind of furious activity normally reserved for finding a decent pint in a dry county.
Now, I don’t wish to pour cold gin on the bonfire of hope, but let’s be honest: negotiating with the Iranian judiciary is like trying to reason with a particularly stubborn mule that also happens to have a grudge against the Queen. These are the same people who think the 1979 revolution was a jolly good idea and that “free speech” means “speak freely about how great we are”. The couple, according to reports, were originally arrested for (and I quote) “activities incompatible with Islamic law”, which could mean anything from organising a whist drive to wearing socks that don’t match.
The Foreign Secretary, a man whose hair appears to be locked in a permanent struggle with the concept of gravity, has issued a statement that combines concern with the subtle menace of a schoolmaster who’s just found a catapult in your desk. “We are deeply disappointed,” he said, his voice probably wobbling like a blancmange in an earthquake. “We will be leaving no stone unturned,” which in diplomatic parlance means “we will be sending strongly worded letters, possibly with a photo of the Queen looking stern”.
What we are left with is a crisis that feels both deeply tragic and absurdly farcical. Two people, probably just looking for a nice holiday and some decent pistachios, are now pawns in a geopolitical chess match that would make even Garry Kasparov weep into his vodka. The Iranians, for their part, are playing the long game, knowing that every day the couple spends in a Tehran holding cell is another day of leverage against the perfidious West.
So raise a glass of something strong (I recommend a Hendrick’s, preferably sipped from a hip flask in a no-alcohol zone). Not in celebration, but in solidarity. Because if there’s one thing the British diplomatic corps can do, it’s make a fuss in a very polite manner until someone caves. Or until the gin runs out. Whichever comes first.
