In a brazen act of what can only be described as 'aggressive redecorating,' an Iranian drone has turned Kuwait International Airport into a post-modernist sculpture park, killing one and wounding dozens. The news hit Whitehall like a gin-spritzed slap in the face. Britain, ever the plucky butler on the global stage, instantly vowed solidarity.
Oh, the solidarity! It's not just a word, it's a feeling that swells in the chest of every M.P.
who suddenly remembers their constituency might have an Iranian restaurant. The update? We stand with Kuwait.
We condemn the act. We're 'deeply concerned.' It's the diplomatic equivalent of patting someone on the head while their house burns down.
The drone, perhaps a relic from the 1980s or a model kit built in someone's shed, managed to hit an airport. An airport! The one place where security is measured in shoe removals and liquid bans, not anti-aircraft batteries.
The poor soul who perished had likely just wanted a holiday, or to attend a business meeting about spreadsheets. Instead, they got a front-row seat to the theatre of geopolitics. Meanwhile, Kuwaitis are left picking up pieces of their national pride and shattered glass.
But fear not. Britain is with them. Not with actual defences or a no-fly zone, but with words.
Beautiful, empty, resonant words. We'll send a sternly worded letter. We'll hold an emergency session of Parliament where no one listens.
We'll offer to increase the gin ration at the embassy. The Iranian Supreme Leader, meanwhile, is probably mulling over what to have for breakfast, while his drones do the heavy lifting of international aggression. This isn't war.
This is a promotional video for apathy. I sat in my newsroom, nursing a glass of the stuff that makes journalism tolerable, and wondered: When did 'solidarity' become the go-to currency for impotence? We're so quick to offer our moral support that we've forgotten where we left our military spine.
But let's not be too hard on ourselves. After all, the drone probably ran on cheap Iranian petrol, which is ironic given Kuwait's oil. And the wounded?
They'll recover, with stories to tell their grandchildren about the day their travel plans were disrupted by a flying ashtray from Tehran. So here's to you, Britain. Vowing solidarity in a world where actions speak louder than platitudes.
But at least we've got our priorities straight: condemn, concern, and a stiff drink. As for the Iranian drone? It's probably back home, being polished for its next appointment with someone else's infrastructure.
To Kuwait: I'm sorry it rains drones instead of manna. To Britain: Get a grip. To the rest of us: Stock up on gin.
