In a development that has left British defence chiefs clutching their pearls and reaching for the paracetamol, the man with the hair that looks like a distressed badger has reportedly demanded billions of pounds for a war on Iran. Yes, the same Iran that has been the go-to villain for every scriptwriter in Washington since 1979. The request comes after a Republican revolt, because nothing says 'loyal opposition' like a bunch of suits suddenly finding their spines when it comes to spending money on yet another Middle Eastern quagmire.
Let us paint you a picture. Picture a man, if you can bear it, sitting in the Oval Office, surrounded by sycophants and the lingering smell of burnt steak. He is watching Fox News, presumably, because the only other thing on the telly is a documentary about meerkats, and he can't be bothered with that. Suddenly, a thought pierces the fog of his tanning lotion: 'I need a war. And I need it now.' Why? Because approval ratings are slipping, because the Democrats keep talking about impeachment, and because nothing unites a fractured party quite like the prospect of bombing someone brown.
Now, over to Blighty. In a bunker somewhere in Whitehall, British defence chiefs are holding an emergency meeting. They are not panicking, because that would be unseemly. They are, however, developing a collective tic disorder. The emergency meeting, I am told, involves a lot of tutting, some strategic grimacing, and the occasional gasp of 'Good Lord, not again.' They know what this means. They know that when Uncle Sam calls, Her Majesty's Armed Forces are expected to don their best desert camouflage and follow along like loyal labradors. They have seen this film before. It is called 'The Fog of War Part 37' and it has a budget of about three trillion pounds and a body count that would make Genghis Khan blush.
The demand for billions is, of course, couched in the language of 'national security' and 'regional stability.' But let us be honest. This is about one thing and one thing only: the ego of a man who has never met a conflict he couldn't make worse. The Republicans, who spent years screaming 'Benghazi' at Hillary Clinton, are now falling into line because they know that a president at war is a president who can't be impeached. Or so they think. The irony is so thick you could cut it with a drone strike.
Meanwhile, in the real world, the rest of us are left to ponder the logistics. How many billions? A hundred? A thousand? It is a number so large that it ceases to have meaning, like the number of calories in a Greggs sausage roll or the number of times Boris Johnson has changed his mind on Brexit. It is a number that will be paid for by the taxpayer, by cuts to public services, and by the blood of young men and women who thought they were joining the army to protect their country, not to prop up the ratings of a reality TV star.
And what of the British response? The emergency meeting will likely result in a statement. A statement expressing 'deep concern' and 'the need for a diplomatic solution.' A statement that will be forgotten the moment the first bomb drops. Because, let's face it, when the Americans decide to go to war, we go with them. It is the price of the Special Relationship. A relationship that, at this point, resembles an abusive marriage in which one partner keeps starting fires and the other keeps handing them the matches.
So here we are. On the brink of another war, for reasons that are as clear as mud and about as noble as a used car salesman. The world holds its breath. The gin flows. And somewhere, in a bunker in Whitehall, a defence chief sighs deeply and wonders if it is too early to retire.
