In a move that has left diplomatic correspondents reaching for the smelling salts and the nearest gin bottle, the British government has unveiled its latest masterstroke of international relations: cultural diplomacy, personified by the radiant, racket-swinging wonder that is Naomi Osaka, now repurposed as a Wimbledon Kimbo. Yes, you heard that correctly. The Foreign Office, in a fit of what can only be described as inspired lunacy, has decided that the best way to navigate the treacherous waters of global tension is to deploy a tennis star. Not just any tennis star, mind you, but one whose very presence on Centre Court causes the grass to blush and the umpire to forget the score.
Let me set the scene. The world is on the brink. Sanctions are flying like tennis balls at a Davis Cup final. Threats are being lobbed across borders with the precision of a Novak Djokovic backhand. And what does Her Majesty’s Government do? They send Naomi Osaka to Wimbledon as a cultural attaché. I imagine the memo read: “Gentlemen, we have tried economic pressure, military posturing, and tedious summits. It is time for Plan K: Kimbo Diplomacy.”
And by God, it might just work. Because let’s be honest, who can stay angry when faced with Osaka’s gentle smile and devastating forehand? She is the human equivalent of a chilled Sauvignon Blanc on a summer’s day, a soothing balm for frayed international nerves. The Japanese embassy is reportedly delighted, the French are pretending they thought of it first, and the Americans are trying to claim Osaka as their own. Meanwhile, the British press has gone full tabloid rapture: “OSAKA SAVES THE WORLD” screams the Daily Mail, while the Guardian runs a think piece on “The Meaning of Soft Power in a Hard Brexit World.”
But beneath the surface, there is a delicious irony here. The UK, a nation whose cultural exports have long included Shakespeare, the Beatles, and the art of queueing, now pins its hopes on a woman from Japan who plays tennis in Florida. It is the ultimate testament to globalisation: our cultural ambassadors are now anyone who can hold a racket, sing a tune, or kick a ball. The irony is so thick you could spread it on a crumpet.
I spent the afternoon at Wimbledon, dodging Pimm’s-drinking spectators and trying to ascertain the exact qualifications for a Kimbo diplomat. Is it a natural talent? A course at the Foreign Office? Or do you simply need to win four Grand Slams and have a line of Nike apparel? I asked a blazered official, who replied, with admirable British vagueness, “It’s about the soft power, old boy. The soft power.”
And so, as the artillery of diplomacy fires not bullets but backhands, we must ask: is this sheer madness or a stroke of genius? I suspect both. The world is a madhouse, and the only sane response is to embrace the absurd. So here’s to Osaka, our unlikely peacemaker. May her serves be unreturnable and her smile unbreakable. And if it all goes wrong, there is always gin.
- Biff Thistlethwaite, filing from a deckchair on Centre Court, slightly sunburnt and utterly bewildered.
