In a rancid contortion of international relations that would make a ferret in a tuxedo look statesmanlike, the Iranian national football team — a collection of chaps who can bend a ball around a defensive wall with the precision of a master watchmaker — have been unceremoniously blockaded in Mexico City. Their crime? Attempting to attend the World Cup, a jamboree of global brotherhood and ludicrously overpriced beer, while the United States treats their visa applications like a game of bureaucratic whack-a-mole.
The stand-off, a masterpiece of diplomatic idiocy, threatens to turn the beautiful game into a grubby spat about centrifuges and sanctions. Iran’s lads, who have trained for months with the grim determination of a man trying to assemble flat-pack furniture without the instructions, now find themselves stranded in a country famous for tequila and lucha libre, neither of which are ideal substitutes for a proper training session.
Enter His Majesty’s Government, the chaps who brought us the Brexit omnishambles and the partygate soap opera. Our diplomats, no doubt nursing cups of tepid tea and a general air of bafflement, are now expected to untangle this mess with all the subtlety of a bull in a chinashop. The Foreign Office, which has spent the last decade largely engaged in a civil war between factions who can’t agree on the colour of the wallpaper, must now persuade the Americans to let the Iranians play, while simultaneously assuring the Iranians that the Americans aren’t being complete rotte rs. It’s a task akin to asking a cat to negotiate a peace treaty with a particularly stroppy seagull.
The Mexican authorities, for their part, seem to be enjoying the chaos. They have reportedly offered the Iranian squad unlimited guacamole and the use of a local pitch guarded by a man in an oversized sombrero. It’s probably more hospitable than anything they’d get in Qatar, which is the actual host nation and a place where the concept of a relaxing pint is considered a criminal offence.
Meanwhile, the British public, who have been following this saga with the bemused detachment of someone watching a giraffe try to ice skate, are being asked to care. We are to believe that this visa row is a test of our diplomatic mettle, a chance for Boris Johnson’s spiritual successors to prove that Britain still has a place on the world stage. I would argue that the stage is currently on fire, and the fire brigade have gone on strike, but that’s just my gin talking.
The real tragedy here is not the politics, but the football. Iran have a decent side, the kind of plucky underdogs the world loves, unless they happen to be from a country with a flag that the US State Department has issues with. They were supposed to face England in their opening group match, a fixture that now hangs in the balance like a poorly executed bicycle kick. If the Iranians don’t make it, the game becomes a friendly, a pointless exhibition of athletic prowess with all the tension of a limp handshake. And where’s the fun in that?
So raise a glass of something cheap and aeroplane-friendly to the Iranian eleven, marooned in a land of mariachi and migraine-inducing hangovers. May your visas be processed, your boots be laced, and your politics be left at the turnstiles. As for the diplomats, they can keep their hummus and their hollow promises. The ball is in your court, and it's looking increasingly like a bureaucratic hand grenade.
