In a twist so predictable it could have been penned by a lobotomised soap opera writer, Donald Trump has once again discovered the urgent need for an Iran nuclear deal. Apparently, the man who tore up the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action like a child discarding a soggy Chip butty now wants Tehran to come crawling back. But here's the kicker: Tehran has refused. Quelle surprise.
British diplomats, ever the nervous nellies in the school of geopolitics, are reportedly twitching like lab rats anticipating a shock. They fear a wider Middle East war. Oh, do they now? Perhaps they should have thought of that before letting the orange menace pull the pin on the JCPOA grenade and lob it into the Persian Gulf.
The logic is simple, even for a reality TV star turned world leader: you cannot negotiate with someone you've just slapped in the face with a sanctions fish. Iran, no doubt sipping tea and sharpening its rhetoric, has declared it will not bow to 'maximum pressure.' Amazing how maximum pressure leads to maximum resistance. Who knew?
But let's not pretend this is about diplomacy. This is about Trump needing a win before his next golf trip. A nuclear deal with Iran would be a shiny bauble for his legacy, a peace prize without the bother of actually having to be peaceful. Yet Iran, in a rare display of backbone, has said 'no thanks' to the shakedown.
Meanwhile, Whitehall is in a tizz. Boris Johnson's successor, whoever that is this week, is probably drafting a strongly worded letter while polishing a gin glass. The British establishment loves a good diplomatic crisis, especially one they can blame on the Americans while doing absolutely nothing to solve it.
And what of the wider war? The one everyone fears but nobody stops? It's the elephant in the room, the alabaster albatross, the magnificent misspelling in the sky. Bombs will fall, civilians will die, and oil prices will spike. But at least we'll have some excellent coverage on the BBC.
So here we are, folks. Back at the precipice, with a US president who treats foreign policy like a late-night Twitter rant and a British government that treats foreign affairs as an excuse to order more canapés. The only hope is that Iran has a better sense of humour than the rest of us. Because this farce is wearing thin.
As I drain my airline gin miniature (Gordon's, classy), I raise a glass to the diplomats, the desk jockeys, and the spin doctors who will spend the next few weeks pretending this is a crisis. It's not a crisis. It's a circus. And we're all paying for the peanuts.
