In a move that has diplomats reaching for the extra-strength paracetamol and historians weeping into their single malts, the spectral figure of Donald J. Trump has reportedly demanded editorial control over a US-Iran nuclear deal he spent four years trying to incinerate. Yes, dear reader, the man who ripped up the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action like a petulant toddler shredding a colouring book now wants to be its copy editor.
According to US media reports from the fever swamps of Washington, the former president has been scribbling furious marginalia on a draft of the revived agreement, presumably in crayon. Sources say his revisions include: ‘Make America Great Again’ in Comic Sans, a demand for a lifetime supply of Diet Coke, and a clause that Iran must rename its mountains after him. The mullahs have yet to respond, but their silence is deafening.
This is the political equivalent of a man setting fire to a bridge, then complaining the replacement lacks architectural gravitas. Trump’s original deal-destroying tantrum in 2018 achieved precisely nothing, except to hand Iran a perfectly good excuse to enrich uranium like it was going out of fashion. Now he wants to tweak a deal he torpedoed. It’s like a chef who burns the soufflé then demands to be head pastry chef at the reopening.
The irony, as thick as the clotted cream on a scone at the Ritz, is that Trump’s own advisors are reportedly begging him to pipe down. But when has the Orange One ever listened to reason? He’s too busy marinating in grievance and golf. Meanwhile, the actual negotiators—Biden’s team, the EU, and Iran’s ever-smiling diplomats—are trying to salvage something from the wreckage. They don’t need a heckler from the cheap seats.
And what of the deal itself? The JCPOA was never perfect. It was a leaky umbrella in a monsoon, but it was better than no umbrella at all. Trump’s ‘maximum pressure’ policy just made Iran tougher and richer. Now he wants to be the art critic for a painting he tried to slash. It’s theatre, but not the good kind. It’s the kind of theatre where the actors forget their lines and the audience is made to pay for the drinks.
I suggest we all pour a large gin, sit back, and watch the circus. The clowns are fighting over the elephant. The ringmaster has lost his hat. And somewhere in the wings, the real world waits, holding a nuclear umbrella that’s starting to look distressingly holey.
