In a move that has baffled both Westminster and the shisha lounges of Tehran, J.D. Vance has apparently stumbled into the role of chief negotiator for the Iran nuclear deal, all while his puppet master, the Orange One, sulks in the wings like a jilted prom queen. British diplomats, nursing cups of lukewarm tea and existential dread, are now forced to assess the leverage of a man whose previous diplomatic experience extends to arguing with flight attendants about legroom.
Let us paint the scene: Vance, a man whose face suggests he smells a faint aroma of cabbage at all times, now holds the delicate threads of international nuclear non-proliferation in his clumsy, talon-like fingers. The Iranians, ever the pragmatists, have reportedly demanded that all future negotiations include a guarantee that Vance will not attempt to talk about the Mueller Report or Hunter Biden's laptop. A reasonable request, some might say.
But what of the British diplomats? Poor sods. They have been trained for decades in the art of stiff-upper-lip diplomacy, mastering the subtle art of reading a room through a monocle and a gin and tonic. Now they find themselves faced with a man who learned statecraft from a combination of Twitter memes and a particularly aggressive uncle at Thanksgiving dinner. Their leverage assessment, I imagine, goes something like this: 'We have a cricket bat, a copy of the Guardian, and a vague understanding of what 'Shiite' means. Let us proceed.'
The irony is thick enough to spread on a crumpet. Donald Trump, the man who tore up the original deal like a petulant child discarding a broccoli spear, now finds his vice-president acting as the accidental architect of a new one. It is like watching a man who set fire to his own house then hire an arsonist to rebuild it. Vance, for his part, seems visibly confused. He keeps looking around for someone to blame, his eyes darting like a gambling addict's in a church bingo hall.
And what of the leverage? British diplomats, I suspect, are currently sitting in a room filled with stale biscuits and bad coffee, trying to calculate how many f-words they can slip into a joint communiqué before causing an international incident. Their secret weapon? The one thing the Americans cannot resist: a good cheese platter and a firm handshake. But will it be enough? Will Vance, the accidental diplomat, rise to the occasion, or will he simply tweet his way into a nuclear standoff?
Only time will tell, dear readers. But one thing is certain: the world is now a stage, and the actors are a gibbering fool, a disgraced property developer, and a cohort of British middle managers with an unhealthy obsession with queuing. God save the King, and pass the gin.
