In a move that has sent shivers of predictable futility down the spines of the chattering classes, Iran has today told British-led nuclear inspectors to bugger off. The news broke like a cheap vase at a wedding, shattering the fragile illusion that diplomacy might actually achieve something. The Vance initiative, a monument to misplaced optimism, has collapsed into a heap of platitudes and strong words.
It turns out, readers, that asking a theocratic regime nicely to stop doing things they’re legally obliged to stop doing is about as effective as teaching a pig to sing. The pig will be annoyed, and you will be left with an earful of squealing. The British government, ever the plucky underdog with a stiff upper lip and a limp handshake, has reacted with a statement so bland it could have been written on a digestive biscuit.
They ‘regret’ the decision. They ‘urge’ Tehran to reconsider. They ‘call for’ international action.
Meanwhile, in Tehran, the mullahs are laughing into their beards. They know, as we should know, that nuclear inspectors are only as powerful as the bombs that back them up. And Britain’s arsenal is now about as intimidating as a soggy firecracker.
The Vance diplomacy, named after some forgotten diplomat who probably believed in the power of conversation, has been exposed for what it is: a way for politicians to look busy while the world burns. So let us raise a glass of gin, my dears, and toast to the absurdity of it all. To the inspectors, stood outside the gates of Isfahan, clutching their Geiger counters and their hopes.
To the diplomats, furiously drafting memoranda that no one will read. And to the bombs, ticking away in the desert, waiting for a moment of stupidity that surely will come.
