In the latest installment of 'Theatre of the Absurd: Global Diplomacy Edition,' the Doha talks have ground to a halt faster than a Boris Johnson policy implementation. Why? Because the United States, that bastion of mature international relations, has apparently developed a sudden case of diplomatic scoliosis, refusing to sit upright and face Iran across the negotiating table. No, they'll only talk through intermediaries, as if engaged in a demented playground standoff where neither side will admit they actually want to play.
The Iranians, with all the charm of a spurned lover, have walked out. Again. They claim direct dialogue is the only way forward. But America? America is insisting on what the State Department euphemistically calls a 'structured proximity approach.' Which is diplomatic wank-speak for 'we'll stand in separate rooms and shout at each other through very well-meaning messengers.' Cue the critical British mediation role.
Ah, Britain. Once the empire on which the sun never set, now the world's most overqualified go-between. Our Foreign Secretary, a man whose face looks like it was assembled from leftover parts at a Winston Churchill waxworks, has been parachuted in to 'save the talks.' But what exactly does this 'critical role' entail? Let me paint you a picture: It's 40 degrees in Doha. Our man is sweating through a Savile Row suit, clutching a folder containing vague bullet points written on the back of a Greggs receipt. He shuttles between two air-conditioned suites, delivering slightly rephrased versions of 'we think you're wrong but we'll de-escalate if you de-escalate' and returning with 'no, you de-escalate first.' This is not diplomacy. This is a postman's job with a knighthood attached.
The absurdity is staggering. The US won't talk to Iran because Iran sponsors terrorism. Iran won't talk to the US because the US sponsors maximum pressure. And so the world's fate rests on the shoulders of a man who thinks a strong negotiation tactic is a firm handshake and a jar of Marmite. Newsflash: The Iranians do not want your Marmite. They want your sanctions lifted.
Meanwhile, the actual stakes could not be higher. We are talking about nuclear enrichment, regional war, global oil prices. But the proceedings feel more like an episode of 'The Thick of It' where Malcolm Tucker is a lobbyist for the NRA. Every statement drips with passive aggression. 'We are committed to a diplomatic solution,' says the US, while actively avoiding the only diplomatic tool that works. 'We are flexible,' says Iran, while refusing to show up unless the US blinks first. The whole thing is a pantomime, and we, the British, are the dame in the oversized dress and rubber chicken.
Let us not forget the sheer economic comedy. Britain, desperate to prove its relevance post-Brexit, is throwing itself into this fray like a man who offers to be the designated driver but then proceeds to down three bottles of wine and argue with a lamp-post. Our 'critical role' is a fig leaf for our own geopolitical shrinkage. We cannot influence trade deals with China, we cannot stop the Irish backstop from haunting our dreams, but by God, we can pour tea and translate diplomatic bumper stickers!
The entire charade needs a proper dose of reality. Someone needs to lock Kerry, Blinken, and whoever the Iranian equivalent is in a room, remove all media spin, and say, 'Right, you two. Sort it out or I'm releasing the video of the global elite doing the Macarena at Davos.' Of course, that won't happen. Because that would mean admitting that diplomacy is not a game of exquisite manners but a raw power struggle in which the only currency is the willingness to be uncomfortable.
For now, we will continue to watch our Foreign Secretary crisscross Doha like a caffeinated gopher, achieving precisely nothing but generating enough hot air to power the next COP summit. And the world will wait, because the world has no choice. The Iran nuclear deal, dead or alive, remains the only game in town. But until someone grows a spine and sits across the table, we are all just spectators in a farce that could end with a bang, a whimper, or most likely, an indignant letter to The Times.
