In what diplomatic sources are calling ‘the most unhinged conference call since Kanye phoned Vladimir Putin from a Bora Bora hot tub,’ Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu have allegedly exchanged pleasantries so volcanic that Iran ceasefire negotiations are now wobbling like a drunk on a pogo stick.
Details are scant, but a White House aide with a visible twitch and an empty bottle of Gordon’s in his bin leaked that Trump spent the first fifteen minutes discussing the acoustics of the Western Wall (‘great echo, tremendous sound, very biblical’) before demanding that Netanyahu send him a mural of himself riding a unicorn over Tehran. Netanyahu, to his credit, reportedly responded by offering to send a delegation of angry badgers instead.
This is not satire, dear reader, though it would be funnier if it were. Iran’s foreign minister has already cancelled a scheduled Zoom meeting and replaced it with a three-hour livestream of a cat sleeping on a rug, a gesture that diplomats read as ‘extremely pointed.’ The UN has convened an emergency session, but has so far only agreed on a refreshment break.
Let us pause to marvel at the sheer theatre of it all. Here we have two leaders, each more comfortable with a loaded grievance than a loaded briefcase, conducting foreign policy like a pair of toddlers fighting over a plastic spade in a sandpit. Trump wants a deal but also wants to be seen as the man who single-handedly decapitated the Iran deal with a blunt threat. Netanyahu wants quiet, but only if it involves the quiet hum of F-35s and the sound of his own voice on CNN.
The result? A ceasefire that was already as fragile as a nun’s night out now feels more like a truce between rival gangs armed with Twitter accounts and ballistic missiles. The next few hours could see: a) a sudden peace agreement, b) a nuclear test over Tel Aviv, or c) both men simultaneously announcing a line of branded gin. At this point, option c feels the most likely.
One cannot help but wonder whether the entire edifice of international diplomacy has been replaced by a series of deeply annoying podcast call-ins. Trump’s approach is pure stream-of-consciousness aggression: ‘You know, Bibi, the Iranians, they have no deal, no deal at all, I made the best deal, the Abraham Accords, everybody said it, but this one, this one is worse than a lemon, and I know lemons, I have the best lemons.’ Netanyahu, meanwhile, has perfected the art of saying ‘I agree but also I’m planning to bomb you to the Stone Age’ with a smile that could curdle milk at fifty paces.
But let us not pretend this is just two old men being loud on the phone. This is a crisis manufactured by ego, sustained by bluster, and now threatening to incinerate any hope of a diplomatic resolution. The ceasefire talks were already on life support, attached to a ventilator made of recycled press releases and badly translated tweets. This call may well have pulled the plug.
What happens next? Your guess is as good as mine, and probably better than the advice offered by the raft of retired generals and think-tank flacks who will now clog our screens. They will speak of ‘red lines’ and ‘bottom lines’ and ‘the importance of keeping channels open.’ But they will not mention the gin. They never mention the gin.
So raise a glass, reader. Not to peace, not to war, just to the sheer, mind-boggling absurdity of it all. The world is a circus, and the clowns are in charge of the fireworks. And the phone. Always the phone.
