In a development that has shaken the collective hangover of Whitehall, His Majesty’s diplomats have reportedly wrangled a ‘constructive’ dialogue between the Great Satan and the Axis of Evil, proving once again that the British speciality is to arrive late to a bar fight, declare yourself the referee, and steal the peanuts. The talks, held somewhere between a Swiss chalet and a diplomatic purgatory, have yielded ‘encouraging progress’ on the nuclear file, which is diplomatic code for ‘we have agreed to have more meetings about having meetings’. Iran, ever the gracious host, rolled out the customary red carpet woven from threat and tea, while the US delegation, led by a man who looks like he’s been shoved through a hedge backwards, smiled through gritted teeth.
The British foothold? More like a toe dipped in lukewarm bathwater, but they’ll call it a ‘strategic beachhead’ if it gets them a seat at the grown-ups’ table. Meanwhile, the real nuclear clock ticks on, but who cares when you can issue a joint communiqué that says absolutely nothing in the most elegant possible prose.