In a development so predictably absurd it could have been penned by a committee of alcoholic chimps, the orange-tinted Vesuvius of Mar-a-Lago has erupted over what he calls an 'unpatriotic' rebuke of his Iran policy from the House of Representatives. Meanwhile, Downing Street, in a desperate bid to look relevant, has reaffirmed its 'unwavering commitment' to the JCPOA. Because nothing says unwavering like a government that changes its mind faster than a Tory MP caught with their trousers down.
Let us first savour the grotesque spectacle of Donald J. Drumpf, a man whose understanding of patriotism would fit on a postage stamp, accusing anyone of lacking love for their country. This is the same man who once said he could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and not lose a vote. A man whose entire foreign policy is based on the whims of his bowel movements. And now he sits in judgment of the House? The House, which is currently more divided than a pub brawl over the last bag of crisps. They pass a resolution rebuking his Iran strategy, a strategy that can be summed up as 'maximum pressure, minimum thought.' Drumpf, instead of offering a coherent response, throws a tantrum. He calls them unpatriotic. The sheer, breathtaking chutzpah is enough to make a gonzo journalist weep into his gin.
And what of our dear Prime Minister, that ever-optimistic football of a man, Boris Johnson? He who promised to deliver Brexit 'do or die' and now spends his days dodging questions like a matador with a bad back. Downing Street, in a press release that reeked of desperation and stale biscuits, announced that Britain remains 'committed to the nuclear deal.' This is the same deal that the US tore up under Drumpf, the same deal that Iran is slowly, methodically violating. But never mind that. Boris, a man whose hair seems to have a life of its own, wants to have his cake and eat it, to negotiate with Iran while simultaneously pleasing Washington. It is a diplomatic two-step that would make a tortoise dizzy.
The irony is thick enough to spread on scones. Drumpf, the grand isolationist, demands loyalty from a parliament that represents a country he publicly scorns. Boris, the champion of global Britain, kowtows to a president who openly mocks him. And between them, the Iranian people suffer. The nuclear deal, once a beacon of diplomacy, is now a smouldering wreck, a monument to the ego of two men who cannot see past their own reflections.
But let us not forget the real victims here: the journalists who have to report this nonsense without laughing. The political correspondents who must keep a straight face while quoting Drumpf's tweets. The anchors who must frame this as a serious geopolitical struggle. It is not. It is a circus. A grotesque, hilarious, tragic circus, with clowns in suits and a ringmaster who tweets insults at 3am.
I call upon the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson to witness this madness. This is the final frenzy, the last desperate grasp of a world order gasping for relevance. The deal is dead. Long live the deal. And pass me the gin.
