In a spectacle that could only have been dreamt up by a committee of particularly cynical scriptwriters, the latest Gaza flotilla has docked not in triumph but in a storm of mutual recrimination. Activists, fresh from their Mediterranean cruise of conscience, are now alleging a veritable smorgasbord of Israeli abuse: rough handling, confiscation of their precious cargo of... well, let's be honest, we all know it's a mixed bag of aid and agitprop.
The British Foreign Office, in a move as predictable as a hangover after a night on the cheap sherry, has demanded an independent inquiry. Because nothing says 'robust foreign policy' like asking nicely for an investigation that will take years, cost millions, and ultimately conclude that everyone behaved badly but nobody really wants to do anything about it.
Let's dissect this theatrical production, shall we? The flotilla, a floating carnival of virtue-signalling, sets sail with a cargo of good intentions and a media pack hungry for footage of Israeli commandos looking suitably menacing. The Israelis, never ones to miss an opportunity for a public relations disaster, oblige by boarding the vessels with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop that's also on fire.
Now we have the inevitable standoff: activists claiming they were 'brutally manhandled' (a term that could apply to my last encounter with EasyJet check-in staff) and Israel insisting it was a 'necessary security measure' (the diplomatic equivalent of 'the dog ate my homework').
Meanwhile, the British Foreign Office, presumably staffed by people who have learned the art of masterful inactivity from a young age, demands an inquiry. An inquiry! The go-to response for any situation where decisive action might upset someone. It's the verbal equivalent of a shrug, a shrug that takes three years and costs twelve million pounds.
What will this inquiry actually achieve? It will produce a report, bound in the finest cardboard, that will be cited by both sides as vindication. The activists will wave it like a holy text. Israel will point to its caveats and qualifications. And everyone will move on to the next crisis, having learned precisely nothing.
I propose a different approach. Let's send in a team of gonzo journalists armed with nothing but a case of gin and a mandate to find the truth. We'll make our own flotilla, stocked with the finest investigative tools known to humanity: cheap booze, a saucy sense of humour, and a total disregard for diplomatic niceties. We'll sail into the fray, not to deliver aid but to deliver a good kicking to the shins of pomposity on all sides.
But alas, the Foreign Office has called for an inquiry. The gears of bureaucratic inertia grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine. By the time the inquiry reports, the participants will be dead, the Middle East will be on fire in a different way, and we'll all have forgotten why we cared in the first place.
So, to the flotilla activists: I salute your passion, even as I roll my eyes at your naivety. To the Israeli government: I condemn your ham-fisted heavy-handedness, even as I acknowledge you have a point about security. And to the Foreign Office: I raise my glass of lukewarm tap water in a mock toast. An inquiry. How wonderfully, splendidly, utterly British.
