The world, in its infinite absurdity, has gifted us a diplomatic two-step of such exquisite bathos that even a gin-soaked hack like myself can barely keep his monocle polished. Donald J Trump, the orange-tinged avatar of American exceptionalism, is to visit India. Cue the elephants, the marigolds and the carefully choreographed handshakes that will pretend the frost between Modi and the White House is but a light dusting of Himalayan snow. The thaw, we are told, is on. Bilateral trade, defence and something called 'strategic convergence' are on the menu. One can only assume the gin will be Indian this time, which is a dubious diplomatic concession.
Meanwhile, in a parallel universe of red telephone boxes and fading Union Jacks, Britain is flexing its Commonwealth muscles. The UK, having spent decades dismantling its empire with the grace of a bulldog in a china shop, now seeks to 'leverage' those very ties to maintain influence in South Asia. Because nothing says 'global Britain' like clinging to the frayed apron strings of a post-colonial sewing circle. The Commonwealth, that glorified book club with a royal figurehead, is once again trotted out as a 'unique' platform. Unique, indeed. A gathering of nations bound by a shared history of exploitation, cricket and an uneasy relationship with the English language.
Let us examine the geometry of this farce. Trump arrives in Delhi, fresh from a domestic whirlwind of impeachments and tweets. He will be greeted by Modi, a man whose political persona oscillates between stern patriarch and holographic deity. The streets will be scrubbed, the poor will be hidden behind hoardings, and the press will be fed a diet of sycophancy that would choke a lesser journalist. They will smile. They will shake hands. They will sign memoranda of understanding that will be forgotten before the return flight serves its fourth gin and tonic. But really, what is the point? Trump seeks a legacy. Modi seeks validation. The American president, in his final throes, wants a photo op that shows him as a statesman. The Indian prime minister needs to demonstrate that he can manage the great white whale of geopolitics. Neither will achieve their goal. The thaw is cosmetic, a diplomatic Botox injection doomed to wear off as soon as the TV cameras depart.
And what of Britain? Ah, yes. The UK, post-Brexit, post-truth, post-empire, has found a new calling as a windbreak against the gales of irrelevance. The Commonwealth, we are told, is not about nostalgia. It is about trade, investment and 'shared values'. But ask yourself: when was the last time a Commonwealth trade deal made headlines? The answer is never, because the Commonwealth is a karaoke bar where everyone sings 'Land of Hope and Glory' while eyeing the exits. The UK's 'leveraging' is the desperate clutch of a former heavyweight now sparring with middleweights. South Asia will not be swayed by appeals to a common heritage. India wants American dollars and Chinese infrastructure. Pakistan wants… well, Pakistan wants tea and a decent cricket team. Britain offers platitudes and a vaguely paternalistic pat on the head.
So here we are. Three actors. One stage. And a script that would be rejected by a fringe theatre festival as too on the nose. Trump will bluster. Modi will simper. The UK will fret about relevance while polishing the silverware of a bygone era. And I, dear reader, will be in the press gallery, sharpening my quill and ordering another drink. Because the only way to report this madness is to be slightly drunker than the politicians. Gin makes the absurdity palatable. It turns the herring into a red one, the red carpet into a blotch of embarrassing colour. And as the sun sets on the empire, the Commonwealth and a thousand photo opportunities, I raise my glass to the one constant in global affairs: the sheer, unadulterated silliness of it all.
Biff out. Time for a refill.
