In a development that has diplomatic correspondents reaching for the thesaurus and seasoned cynics reaching for the bottle, the mullahs of Tehran have decided that today is not the day for finalising that nuclear deal. Instead, they are playing a game of geopolitical patience while the White House, under the influence of some war-weary logic, accelerates its so-called "war-ending diplomacy."
Let us be clear: this is not diplomacy as you or I would know it. This is diplomacy as performed by people who have never had to negotiate the price of a second-hand Volvo. They speak in press releases and think-tank jargon, their words as hollow as a politician's promise. Meanwhile, in Tehran, the supreme leader is probably sipping mint tea and chuckling at the West's collective fluster.
The narrative from Washington is that the deal is tantalizingly close. They have been saying that since Noah was a midshipman. But close, as any old soak knows, is a relative term. Close to a breakthrough? Yes. Close to collapse? Equally. The White House, sensing the fragility of its own position, is now "accelerating" its efforts. Which translates to: more phone calls, more cables, more internal memos that will be leaked within the hour.
This is the same White House that promised us a new dawn of American engagement. They promised to lead from behind, whatever that means. Now they are scrambling to land a deal that looks increasingly like a mirage. It is a ballet of bafflement, performed on a sinking stage.
But let us not forget the real theatre. The nuclear deal is not about nuclear weapons. It never was. It is about prestige, about who blinks first, about the ancient art of saving face. For Tehran, stalling is a tactic. It signals that they are not desperate. It signals that they have options. And for Washington, accelerating shows a need for victory, a desperate clutch at a foreign policy success.
The irony is palpable. The White House is now engaged in the very thing it accused its predecessors of: war-ending diplomacy. They claimed the old guard were warmongers, but now they are the ones rushing to end a war. The cognitive dissonance is enough to make a sober man weep.
Meanwhile, the people of Iran and the people of the West look on, their fates tied to the whims of men who have never known hunger or fear. The nuclear deal is not a solution. It is a Band-Aid on a compound fracture. But in the world of diplomacy, Band-Aids are considered state-of-the-art.
So raise a glass to Tehran and to Washington. Toast to the stalling and the accelerating. For in the end, it is all a grand farce, performed for the benefit of the gallery. And the gin, as always, is the only reliable constant.
This is Barnaby 'Biff' Thistlethwaite, signing off. I need a drink.
