In a development that has shaken the corridors of power from Washington to Whitehall, the White House gunman's past clashes with the Secret Service have been laid bare like a particularly unappetising Dover sole. The man, a fellow with more issues than The Guardian's weekend supplement, apparently had a long and rancorous history with the men in dark suits and earpieces. This is not a surprise. The Secret Service, a branch of government that inspires the same warm fuzzies as a tax audit, has always had the interpersonal skills of a startled badger.
The gunman, whom we shall call 'Mr. Angry with a Gun' (because naming him would give him the notoriety he so richly does not deserve), was known to the Service for a series of increasingly unhinged interactions. One might think that a man who once tried to deliver a cease-and-desist letter to the President's dog would set alarm bells ringing. But no. The Secret Service, in their infinite wisdom, apparently filed these incidents under 'Meh, he's at least not wearing a bomb vest.' And so, we find ourselves here, with a man able to saunter onto the White House lawn like he owned the place, which he did not, despite what his paranoid manifesto claimed.
The UK embassy, in a state of high dudgeon and possibly a bit of gin (as one does), has immediately reviewed its own protocols. Because nothing says 'We are on top of this' like a review. Diplomatic cables have been frantically rewritten, security briefings have been hastily convened, and someone has undoubtedly been told to polish the brass door handles until they can see their own worried reflection. This is the British way: when in doubt, form a committee and produce a report. The report will be thorough, impeccably spelled, and utterly useless if a similar nutter decides to have a pop at the ambassador.
The real question, of course, is how a man with a rap sheet longer than a list of Matthew McConaughey films managed to get within spitting distance of the leader of the free world. The answer, as with all good farces, is a cascade of bureaucratic bungling. Someone failed to share a memo. Someone else was on their lunch break. The CCTV camera was pointed at a particularly interesting cloud. It is a miracle that the Republic still stands, and by 'miracle' I mean 'dumb luck'.
As the news cycles churn and the talking heads opine, let us not forget the absurdity of it all. We live in a world where a man with a grudge and a gun can become a global headline, while the true villains, the purveyors of bad policy and worse coffee, continue to operate with impunity. The Secret Service will no doubt receive more funding, more training, and more opportunities to stand around looking stern. The gunman will be turned into a cautionary tale, a meme, a subject of late-night comedy. The rest of us will pour another drink and wonder when the next crisis will come. Probably soon. The kettle is on.
