In a stunning display of international cooperation that makes the Entente Cordiale look like a pub brawl, Emmanuel Macron has confirmed that British intelligence assets lent a hand – presumably one gloved in Savile Row silk – to help France seize a sanctioned Russian oil tanker. Yes, dear reader, it appears that MI6, those purveyors of shaken-not-stirred espionage, have been moonlighting as nautical repo men for their Gallic cousins.
Let us paint the scene. Somewhere in the English Channel, a rust-bucket flying the colours of Putin's personal piggy bank was chugging along, no doubt leaking crude oil and dignity in equal measure. Suddenly, from the fog, a French naval vessel appeared, bristling with baguettes and stern looks. But wait, was that a faint whiff of Earl Grey in the air? A shadowy figure on the bridge, adjusting his monocle? Yes, Monsieur le President confirmed it: gendarmes didn't do it alone. 'The Brits helped,' he said, probably while adjusting his beret and suppressing a Gallic shrug.
Now, imagine the conversation in the Whitehall war room. 'Right, chaps, we need to nick this tanker. Ideas?' 'Sir, could we deploy a submarine? No, too obvious. A fleet of rubber ducks? No, budget cuts. I know, let's ask the French. They've got boats, we've got cheek. Perfect storm.' And so, the special relationship twerked its way into maritime law enforcement. Macron, in his infinite wisdom, decided to let the cat out of the bag, perhaps to remind the world that Brexit hasn't entirely scuppered our ability to cooperate on matters of petty theft disguised as international sanction enforcement.
Let us not forget the tanker itself: a floating monument to corruption, carrying the liquid lifeblood of a regime that's about as popular as a ghoul at a garden party. Its crew, no doubt a collection of surly men who haven't seen a bar of soap in months, are now guests of the French Republic, where they will enjoy fine wine and cheese until extradition or boredom sets in.
But the real question, the one that keeps this gonzo correspondent up at night, is: what did the Brits get out of it? A case of Bordeaux? A promise that the French will stop sneering at our cuisine? Or perhaps just the smug satisfaction of knowing that somewhere, a Russian oligarch is weeping into his gramophone, cursing the perfidy of Johnny Foreigner. The tanker, meanwhile, will be drained of its precious cargo, which will no doubt be sold off to fund something dreadfully sensible, like public services or a statue of Boris Johnson made entirely of cheese.
In the grand theatre of global politics, this is but a minor scene. Yet it speaks to the absurdity of our times: two nations, historically at each other's throats, joining forces to confiscate a ship that's probably owned by a holding company registered in the Cayman Islands, which is itself a front for a man who spends his weekends hunting bears with his bare hands. The sheer, glorious nonsense of it all. I raised a glass of lukewarm gin to the MI6 officer who, somewhere in a damp Portakabin, is now filling out paperwork in triplicate, thanking God that at least he didn't have to eat a croissant.
