In a development so predictable it could have been written by a drunken psephologist on a napkin, the self-styled colossus of chaos, Donald J. Trump, has accused Iran of breaching a ceasefire that neither party admits exists. The accusation comes after a mysterious incident in the Strait of Hormuz, where someone – probably a miffed mermaid with a grudge – took a potshot at a tanker.
The White House, never one to let a good crisis go to waste, immediately pointed fingers at Tehran, despite evidence being about as solid as a Boris Johnson promise. Meanwhile, the Royal Navy, perhaps still upset about the Suez Canal fiasco, is now ‘monitoring’ the oil lanes, which sounds like a polite way of saying they’re sitting in a destroyer sipping Earl Grey and tutting at the chaos. Britain, ever the concerned parent in the global schoolyard, has offered to mediate, which is code for ‘please don’t make the price of petrol go up again’.
The whole affair is a masterpiece of farce: a ceasefire that never was, an attack that may not have happened, and a superpower that communicates primarily through 140-character tantrums. Meanwhile, the rest of us are left wondering if we dare fill up the car or if we should just start stockpiling gin and crying in the shed. The Strait of Hormuz, for those who haven’t been paying attention, is the world’s most expensive bit of water: a narrow channel where a fifth of the planet’s oil sloshes through like a greedy man’s gravy.
Any disruption here sends shockwaves through the global economy, which is why everyone is panicking. But let’s be honest, the real drama is the theatre of it all. Trump needs a distraction from his legal woes, Iran needs to look tough for the home crowd, and Britain needs to pretend it still matters on the world stage.
It’s a perfect storm of self-serving nonsense, and we’re all just getting wet. So, what’s the actual score? Nobody knows.
But you can bet your bottom dollar that somewhere, a politician is using this to justify a defence budget increase, a journalist is writing a piece about ‘sabre-rattling’, and a pub bore is explaining why we should invade somewhere. I need a drink. Preferably one that comes from a country with a stable government and a decent gin export policy.
