In a move that has startled absolutely no one who has been paying the faintest bit of attention, Iran has decided to pause its latest round of aerial pleasantries with Israel, marking the first such exchange since a truce as fragile as a parliamentary consensus on Brexit was patched together. The ayatollahs, in their infinite wisdom (and presumably after a stern word from their ballistic missile suppliers), have decided that lobbing projectiles at the Holy Land is a bit passé this week. Meanwhile, Britain, ever the concerned parent at the global dinner table, has emerged from its fog of self-inflicted crises to urge both sides to 'exercise restraint' — a phrase that in diplomatic circles translates roughly to 'please stop trying to blow each other up, because we have our own problems like potholes and the cost of a pint.'
The ceasefire, if one can dignify it with such a term, was always a delicate bloom in the desert of geopolitical dysfunction. It had the lifespan of a mayfly on a hot griddle. Both nations, locked in a dance as old as the hills and twice as deadly, had apparently agreed to a brief pause in hostilities so that children in Gaza and Tel Aviv could enjoy a few hours of not being turned into a statistical footnote. But of course, the urge to settle ancient scores with modern technology proved irresistible. Iran, presumably, got the itch. Israel, presumably, got the retaliatory urge. And now, after a brief flurry of rockets and retaliatory strikes that would make a fireworks display look like a damp squib, Iran has thrown in the towel for the moment. Cue the champagne corks popping in the UN corridors (or more likely, the sound of tumblers of scotch being poured in darkened rooms).
Britain's response, as predictable as a rainy bank holiday, was to dust off the 'Restraint' placard from the cupboard marked 'Use in Case of Middle East Crisis (Again).' The Foreign Office, that bastion of well-meaning platitudes, issued a statement that could have been written by a committee of lobotomised parrots. 'We urge all parties to show restraint and de-escalate,' they cooed, as if the combatants had merely been arguing over parking spaces. One can almost picture the diplomats, starched collars and all, sipping tea from bone china while gently shaking their heads at the barbarity of it all. 'Jolly bad form, this rocketry business. Time for a nice cup of Earl Grey and a chat about cricket.'
The irony, of course, is thick enough to spread on a scone. This is a nation that, not so long ago, was cheerfully bombing Libya and Iraq into the stone age, now playing the role of the world's chastened uncle. It's like watching a reformed drunkard lecture a bar full of lushes on the perils of alcohol. But such is the theatre of international relations. Iran, for its part, has framed its pause as a 'gesture of goodwill,' which is diplomatic doublespeak for 'we ran out of drones.' Israel, predictably, has declared victory and promised to 'continue defending itself,' which means they'll probably just kill a few more Iranian scientists in their sleep. It's all very civilised.
In the end, the only thing this brief escalation has proven is that peace in the Middle East is about as likely as a vegan knife fight. The truce, such as it was, is now in intensive care, and Britain's advice is about as useful as a chocolate teapot. But hey, at least the gin in Heathrow's departure lounge is still flowing. And in this House of Cards that we call geopolitics, that might be the only truth that matters.
