In a breathtaking display of diplomatic chutzpah that would make a Victorian poacher blush, the Islamic Republic of Iran has told the United States where to stick its nuclear inspection demands. The UK, ever the loyal handbag to Uncle Sam's tantrums, has dutifully trotted out in support of the International Atomic Energy Agency, presumably while polishing its monocle and muttering about the decline of civilised discourse.
The kerfuffle began when Vice President Vance, a man whose face appears to be a permanent state of mild constipation, demanded unfettered access for IAEA inspectors to Iran's nuclear facilities. Tehran's response was swift and unequivocal: a resounding 'naff off' wrapped in a turban of theological sanctimony. 'We will not bow to the bullying of arrogant Western powers,' declared an Iranian spokesman, his beard bristling with righteous indignation. 'Our nuclear programme is peaceful, unless you count the enrichment of uranium to weaponisable levels, which is purely coincidental.'
What Vance failed to grasp, in his blundering through the minefield of international diplomacy, is that Iran has turned nuclear brinkmanship into an art form. They've been playing this game since the shah was in nappies. The IAEA might as well try to inspect a mirage in the Kavir desert. Every time inspectors arrive, they're greeted with a labyrinth of subterranean centrifuges, each one hidden behind a curtain of 'national security' and possibly a few Persian rugs.
The UK's response, as predictable as a bad pint of ale, was to echo American outrage while carefully avoiding any mention of the fact that we sold Iran the centrifuges in the first place. 'We stand fully with the IAEA,' cooed a Foreign Office spokesperson, her voice dripping with the sincerity of a used car salesman. 'We call upon Iran to comply with its international obligations immediately, and also to consider our fine range of British biscuits.'
This is, of course, all part of the grand theatre of nuclear diplomacy. Iran knows that the West can't actually do anything about its nuclear programme without starting a war that would make the Iraq invasion look like a picnic. And the West knows that Iran knows this. So we all dance this grotesque ballet of sanctions, threats, and hollow ultimatums, while the centrifuges spin on, humming a little tune of chaos.
Meanwhile, the real story is being buried under a avalanche of political grandstanding. The nuclear deal is dead, buried, and probably having a laugh at its own funeral. What we're left with is a game of chicken where everyone crashes into the same wall of mutually assured destruction. The only winners are the arms dealers, the pundits, and the gin distillers who profit from my existential despair.
So raise a glass to the IAEA, those poor bastards tasked with finding needles in radioactive haystacks. And spare a thought for Vance, whose diplomatic skills are roughly equivalent to a bull in a china shop, except the bull would have more finesse. The UK stands with them, for all the good it does. Which is to say, about as much use as a chocolate teapot in a heatwave.
