In a development that has the boggle-eyed boffins at MI6 patting themselves on the back with the enthusiasm of a toddler discovering the joy of poo, it emerges that Australia’s largest ever cocaine bust was orchestrated by a tip-off from Her Majesty’s finest. Yes, the land of the long weekend and the shrimp-on-the-barbie owes its latest drug seizure not to its own intrepid coppers, but to a bunch of chinless wonders who probably thought ‘cocaine’ was a new type of quinoa.
Let us paint the picture. Picture a bloke in a belted mac, nursing a lukewarm gin and tonic at a desk in Vauxhall Cross. He’s intercepted a WhatsApp message from a kangaroo to a koala, or some such technobabble, and suddenly a shipment of Bolivian marching powder the size of a small housing estate is intercepted off the coast of Sydney. Hooray, global cooperation! Or, as we see it, another episode of ‘Britain: A Stool Pigeon for the World’.
The sheer scale of the seizure is announced with the usual pomp. A vessel, crewed by men who probably thought they were moving a cargo of Vegemite sandwiches, is apprehended carrying 2.3 tonnes of the devil’s dandruff. ‘A record’, they say, as if we should be proud. But let us ask the obvious question: where exactly was this bounty heading? To the sun-bleached beaches of Bondi? To the boardrooms of Melbourne? And more crucially, who was going to pay for it? We can only assume the price per gram was about to skyrocket, much to the chagrin of every investment banker in the city.
The British intelligence community, of course, are not forthcoming with details. ‘Operation Clotted Cream’ or some such code name is whispered, but the real story is the delicious irony that the nation which once colonised Australia is now acting as its conscience. It is like the prodigal son returning, but instead of a fatted calf he brings a warrant and a sniffer dog.
There is, of course, the obligatory mention of the fight against organised crime. ‘A significant blow to the supply chain’, they bleat. Nonsense. The war on drugs is a farce, a pantomime where the audience is expected to clap for the heroes while the villains scuttle off to plan their next caper. This seizure will do nothing to stop the flow of narcotics. It will simply raise the price, meaning your average user will have to steal a few more handbags to fund their habit.
But let us not forget the main absurdity: that the Brits are now global drug busters. We cannot even keep our own borders secure from small boats of desperate refugees, yet we are expected to believe we are the Shepherds of the Pacific? It is laughable. Our intelligence services are so busy poking their noses into Australian drug shipments that they have missed the actual cocaine coursing through the veins of Whitehall.
Meanwhile, the Australian police congratulate themselves on a job well done, while conveniently ignoring that their own efforts would have amounted to nothing without a nudge from across the pond. ‘G’day, thanks for the tip, hope you didn’t spill your tea.’
So raise a glass, loyal readers. But make sure it is not a glass of something suspicious. The gin, as always, is in my glass. And as I sip, I cannot help but wonder: is this a victory for law enforcement, or a sad indictment of a world where the only way to stop a drug shipment is to have someone else doing the spying? The answer, as always, is probably both. But one thing is certain: the cocaine will find its way. It always does.