In a development that has sent shockwaves through the corridors of power, the Secret Service has engaged in what the sweaty-palmed men in ill-fitting suits are calling a ‘security incident’ near the White House. Details remain as foggy as a Westminster morning after a lock-in, but sources whisper of a man with a rucksack and a bad attitude who decided to test the tensile strength of the presidential perimeter fence. The response was swift, brutal, and involved a lot of shouted acronyms that no one outside the alphabet soup of American security could possibly understand.
Naturally, this has set off a chain reaction of hysteria among our own dear leaders in the UK. I imagine the Prime Minister’s private secretary is even now polishing the nuclear briefcase and muttering incantations to the god of transatlantic relations. The Foreign Office, never one to miss a chance to look flustered, has issued a statement that manages to say absolutely nothing while using 47 well-crafted sentences. ‘We are in close contact with our allies,’ they bleat, which is diplomat-speak for ‘we have no idea what happened but we’re terrified it might affect our trade deals.’
Let us not forget the sheer absurdity of the situation. A man, presumably in possession of no more than a half-baked plan and a misguided sense of rebellion, manages to force the entire machinery of global security into a frenzy of ‘what ifs.’ What if he had been a British spy? What if the rucksack contained a jammy dodger and a thermos of Earl Grey? The mind boggles, or rather, the mind performs the mental equivalent of a waltz with a walrus. For this is the world we inhabit: a world where a scuffle over a hedge can send ripples through the pond of international diplomacy.
Meanwhile, the British public goes about its business, blissfully unaware that the fate of Western civilisation hangs by a thread, or rather by the shoelace of a man who is currently being cavity-searched in a secret location. I raise a glass of the finest duty-free gin to the Secret Service, for giving us something to talk about other than the price of bread. To the men in suits, the women in stern glasses, and the drones that hover overhead like metallic vultures, I say: keep up the good work. Your paranoia is our entertainment.
And to the would-be fence-challenger, wherever you are, I offer a modicum of respect. You have reminded us that the Emperor’s new clothes are not bulletproof, that a single act of idiocy can temporarily unite nations in a shared stare of bewilderment. The security alert for UK allies has been raised from ‘business as usual’ to ‘mild constipation.’ The system works, after a fashion. The machine grinds on, and we are all just cogs in the great, clanking contraption of state-sponsored anxiety. Cheers.
