In a development that has sent tremors through the global shipping lanes and caused a noticeable spike in gin consumption at the Ministry of Defence, a flotilla of British sailors finds itself trapped in the Strait of Hormuz, surrounded by hostile Iranian speedboats and a distinct lack of decent pubs. The blockade, orchestrated by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps in a display of nautical bluster that would make Blackbeard blush, has left Her Majesty’s finest bobbing about like bath toys in a very serious geopolitical bathtub.
Word from Whitehall, delivered via a slightly flustered press officer who smelled faintly of fear and stale biscuits, confirms that the Royal Navy is on standby. HMS something-or-other, a destroyer with a name that sounds like a minor character from a Patrick O’Brian novel, is reportedly warming up its engines and polishing its telescopes for a daring evacuation mission. The operation, codenamed ‘Operation Gin and Tonic’ (or possibly ‘Operation Get Our Chaps Out of This Mess’), will involve a delicate dance of diplomacy, bluff, and possibly flinging a few sandwiches at the Iranians to distract them.
The trapped sailors, a plucky band of ratings and officers from a Type 45 destroyer on a routine deployment, are said to be in good spirits, despite running low on Marmite and the Wi-Fi being patchy. “We’re maintaining a stiff upper lip,” one sailor was heard to say, presumably through a mouthful of salt-laced seawater. “The captain’s promised us double rum rations if we get out of this, so we’re keeping our eyes peeled for a way through the blockade.” Ah, the Royal Navy: where every crisis is met with a cup of tea and a promise of grog.
Meanwhile, in Tehran, the mullahs are no doubt rubbing their hands with glee at the prospect of inconveniencing the British Empire’s maritime might. President Raisi, a man whose face looks like it was carved from a block of pure spite, has declared that the blockade will remain until the West agrees to lift sanctions and apologise for the invention of trousers. His foreign minister, a chap with a smile that could curdle milk, added that the sailors are being “well treated” and that they can leave anytime they like, provided they first convert to Shia Islam and sign a petition against the Great Satan.
Back in Blighty, the Defence Secretary, a man who seems to have been manufactured in a Whitehall laboratory to be the most forgettable politician imaginable, told the House of Commons that “all options are on the table” a phrase that has become the official mantra of governments with absolutely no idea what to do. “We are working tirelessly with our allies to ensure the safe passage of British shipping,” he droned, while MPs nodded sagely, trying to remember which country they were angry at this week.
In my capacity as the last true gonzo journalist, I have infiltrated the naval base at Portsmouth, where I found the MOD communications room in a state of controlled chaos. A young officer, fresh out of Sandhurst and still smelling of old books, briefed me on the plan: “We’ll send in a helicopter under cover of darkness. The SAS will fast-rope onto the deck, distribute cups of tea, and then ferry the crew to a waiting submarine. The sub will then surface off the coast of Oman, where a fleet of Range Rovers will be waiting to take them to the nearest airport. It’s a classic extraction.” I asked him what happens if the Iranians shoot at the helicopter. He looked at me as if I’d asked if the Queen rides a scooter. “They wouldn’t dare. We’ve got the Daily Mail on our side.”
The real question, of course, is what this says about the state of global politics. The Strait of Hormuz is a narrow waterway through which a fifth of the world’s oil passes. A blockade here is like blocking the entrance to a pub during happy hour: chaos will ensue. Prices will spike, economies will wobble, and the good people of Surrey will have to pay an extra tenner to fill up their Range Rover Sports. But for the Royal Navy, this is a chance to relive the glory days of empire, to show that Britannia still rules the waves, or at least has a decently sized puddle to call her own.
So we wait. We wait for the spin doctors to spin, for the admirals to salute, and for the sailors to be extracted, likely with a film crew in tow and a Netflix deal already signed. And when they return, they will be hailed as heroes, given a parade, and promptly sent on two weeks’ leave to a seaside town where they can stare at the horizon and wonder why they ever joined up. As for me, I shall be in the pub, raising a glass of Plymouth Gin to the fools who go down to the sea in ships. Cheers, lads. Don’t get your toes wet.
