In a move that has sent shockwaves through the international community and caused several British civil servants to spontaneously develop nervous tics, His Orangeness Donald J. Trump has requested a cool several billion to fund a potential war with Iran. The request, delivered via a series of increasingly deranged tweets and a hastily scrawled note on what appears to be a McDonald’s napkin, has sparked a Republican revolt wider than the Grand Canyon and deeper than the Mariana Trench of collective denial.
Meanwhile, here in Blighty, the Treasury has reportedly issued a warning that any such conflict would have ‘severe economic repercussions’ for the United Kingdom. This is terrifying news for a nation whose economy is currently held together with Pritt Stick, hope, and the faint smell of decaying Wetherspoons. One can almost hear the ghost of Margaret Thatcher spinning in her grave so fast she could power the National Grid.
Let’s break down this absolute farrago of geopolitical clownery. Trump, a man whose foreign policy appears to be based on whatever he saw on Fox & Friends that morning, now wants to wade into the Persian Gulf with all the subtlety of a bull in a Ming vaseshop. The Republican party, once the party of fiscal responsibility and not starting wars with other countries unless they have oil, is now in open revolt. Senators are reportedly ‘very concerned’ and ‘deeply troubled’, which in Washington-speak means they’ll probably vote against it before caving and signing a blank cheque drawn on the blood of future generations.
But let’s talk about us. The UK. A country that still thinks it’s a major player on the world stage despite being reduced to a soggy island of Brexit-inflicted self-harm. Our Treasury, a group of people who have the combined charisma of a wet arse, have warned that a US-Iran war would ‘increase uncertainty’ and ‘damage trade’. You don’t say. Perhaps they’d also like to inform us that drowning is wet and fire is hot. The economic fallout is obvious: oil prices would skyrocket, the stock market would do its impression of a yo-yo, and your pension pot would become a fondue set for the rich to dip their G&Ts into.
The sheer absurdity of this situation makes me want to mainline Bombay Sapphire. Here we have a man whose key foreign policy achievement was having a chat with Kim Jong Un about who has the biggest button, now asking for billions to fight a country that hasn’t started a war in centuries. Iran, for all its faults, is not exactly a nation that invades its neighbours for fun. But no, we must have our war. Because nothing says ‘Make America Great Again’ like dropping bombs on people who live in a country that rhymes with ‘I ran’.
And what of the British government? Our glorious leaders, who can’t even agree on how to leave the EU, will no doubt be asked to support their ‘special relationship’ partners. Expect Boris Johnson, a man who looks like a discarded scarecrow who’s been drinking, to make some grand statement about standing shoulder to shoulder with our American cousins while simultaneously making sure our tea supply is secure.
In conclusion, we are all characters in a farce written by a drunk chimpanzee with a typewriter. The end is nigh, the gin is low, and the only thing rising faster than oil prices is my blood pressure. But fear not, dear readers. I’ll be here, reporting from the edge of sanity, as we hurtle towards the abyss. Possibly with a slice of lime.
