In what can only be described as a masterclass in theatrical failure, the Iran nuclear talks collapsed yesterday after President Donald Trump delivered what his aides called a 'final determination' but what the rest of the world recognised as a tantrum wrapped in a flag. British diplomats, wearing expressions usually reserved for finding a wasp in the marmalade, were last seen scurrying around the Vienna conference centre with the desperate energy of men who have just realised their parachutes are made of cupboard doors.
Let us paint the scene. The summit, a grand affair of polished wood and potted ferns, was supposed to be a delicate dance of diplomacy. Instead, it became a cage match between reality and a man who believes negotiation is what happens when you refuse to accept the other person's existence. Trump, fresh from a protein shake and a Twitter storm, reportedly strode in, slammed a folder on the table—a prop, naturally, containing only a menu from a steakhouse—and declared that America was done.
'We are done,' he said, or words to that effect. The Iranian delegates, a stoic bunch who have clearly been briefed on dealing with rogue elephants, blinked slowly. The British delegation, led by a man whose name I cannot for the life of me recall but whose face was a perfect Venn diagram of panic and tea-stained exhaustion, attempted to interject. They were met with a wave of the hand that could have dismissed a fly, or a continent.
Now, the British Foreign Office, a building where the clocks run on passive aggression and institutional marmite, has issued a statement calling for 'calm and continued dialogue.' This is British diplomatic code for 'we are currently hiding behind a sofa and praying the phone doesn't ring.' Sources close to the delegation described the atmosphere as 'like a wedding where the groom has just realised he married the wrong sister.' Another source, a junior attaché who spoke on condition of anonymity and a very large gin, said: 'It's a bloody shambles. We've got a man who thinks diplomacy is a game of gotcha, and he's playing with a nuke.'
Let us examine this 'final determination.' What determination? It was a letter, apparently, though I suspect it was written on a napkin with a crayon. It demanded that Iran cease all nuclear enrichment, accept unlimited inspections, and also maybe give back the lawn chairs from the 1979 embassy takeover. In return, America would offer... nothing. Except perhaps a vague promise not to invade, which, given recent history, is less a promise and more a reprieve until teatime.
Meanwhile, the European contingent, which includes the British, French, and Germans, staged a brave face. They spoke of 'mechanisms' and 'frameworks,' those sacred diplomatic nouns that mean absolutely nothing but sound like they might. The Iranians, for their part, smiled the smile of men who have seen this movie before and know the twist. They walked out, leaving behind a plate of uneaten pastries and a diplomatic corpse.
What now? The United Nations will convene an emergency meeting, where everyone will talk for a week and produce a document that will be filed next to the latest report on climate change. The British diplomats will return to London, their ties askew, their hopes dashed, to face a parliamentary inquiry that will conclude that more dialogue is needed. And Trump, presumably, will be on to the next shiny object, maybe a trade war with the Seychelles or a Twitter spat with a beluga whale.
In the end, this is not a failure of diplomacy but a failure of collective sanity. We are arguing over centrifuges and enriched uranium while the world burns, and the grown-ups in the room are being ignored by a man who thinks compromise is a brand of tyre. The Iran deal is dead, long live the deal. And British diplomats, God bless them, will continue to wring their hands and drink their gin, waiting for the next catastrophe to manage.
I, for one, am off to the airport. I hear the gin there is divine.
