Your satirical correspondent, fortified with a medicinal triple gin, has infiltrated the perimeter of the Montreux Palace, where the improbable spectacle of JD Vance exchanging pleasantries with Iranian diplomats unfolds. British intelligence, presumably monitoring via a hidden microphone in a canapé, must be relishing the absurdity. Vance, the hillbilly philosopher of American conservatism, reportedly opened with a toast: “To freedom, or whatever you chaps call it.
” The Iranians, nonplussed, raised glasses of mint tea. The surrealism is thick as Swiss fog. One imagines MI6 agents, clad in monocles and tweed, furiously taking notes while trying to parse Vance’s Appalachian drawl.
The agenda? Unclear. Perhaps a swap of sanctions for a lifetime supply of pistachios.
Or a joint statement on the benefits of deep-fried kebabs. The world watches, bemused, as the line between diplomacy and comedy routine blurs into oblivion.
