So here we are again, folks. The Strait of Hormuz, that narrow little throat through which the world's oil habit is fed, has been slammed shut with the grace of a vengeful bouncer at a nightclub. Britain, in a fit of colonial nostalgia, has demanded an emergency UN Security Council session. Because nothing says 'global crisis' like a gaggle of diplomats in suits arguing over who gets the last canapé.
Let's be clear: this is not a crisis. A crisis is when your gin runs out at 35,000 feet. This is a geopolitical pantomime where the villain is obvious, the hero is drunk, and the audience is picking the stuffing out of their chairs. The Strait of Hormuz is closed. Ships are parked. Tankers are having existential crises. And Britain, with the same desperate energy as a man trying to start a lawnmower with a paperclip, has called for talks.
What do we expect from a UN session? A sternly worded resolution? A collective shrug in multiple languages? The last time the Security Council achieved anything, it was accidentally, and they've been trying to live it down ever since. No, the real action will happen in the back rooms, where oil companies and hedge fund managers will carve up the remains of the global economy with the subtlety of a toddler with a crayon.
Meanwhile, the ordinary citizen is expected to clutch their pearls and fret about the price of petrol. But let's be honest: the price of petrol is already a joke, written by a committee of comedians who hate us. The closure of Hormuz is just the punchline. We'll be burning furniture for warmth soon, and the government will issue a leaflet on 'alternative heating solutions' that turns out to be a coupon for a single match.
Britain's role in all this is particularly rich. A nation that once ruled the waves now calls for meetings about the waves being blocked. There is something profoundly moving about a former empire reduced to asking nicely at the UN table. It is like watching an old lion beg for a zebra carcass from a pack of hyenas. The only thing missing is a top hat and a monocle.
And what of the supposed aggressor, who has so artfully closed the strait? We are told it is 'unacceptable' and 'a threat to global security.' But let us not pretend that this is about freedom of navigation. This is about oil. It is always about oil. And the irony of a planet choking on carbon emissions panicking because there is too much oil sitting still is not lost on this correspondent. Though admittedly, everything is lost on me after the third gin.
So what will come of this UN session? A flurry of statements. A lot of pointed fingers. Perhaps a sanctions package that will hurt exactly the wrong people. Or maybe, just maybe, a miracle: a diplomatic breakthrough that opens the strait and restores the flow of our beloved black gold. But I would not bet the last of my gin on it.
Until then, we shall watch the dolphins play in the empty waters of the Gulf, and wonder how we got here again. It is a farce, a tragedy, and quite possibly the most expensive reality show ever produced. And Britain is the star, demanding a rewrite from the producers who don't speak English.
Stay tuned. The next episode promises more of the same. And the drinks are on the house.
