In a development that has sent shivers of pure, unadulterated farce down the collective spine of the diplomatic corps, the orange-skinned goblin-in-chief has apparently demanded a cool few billion for a war with Iran. Yes, you heard that correctly. The man who once boasted about his nuclear button being bigger than everyone else’s has now decided that what the world really needs is a full-blown conflagration in the Strait of Hormuz. Because nothing says ‘Make America Great Again’ like turning the Middle East into a smoking crater.
Sources in Whitehall, those bastions of tweed and terror, are reportedly ‘warning’ of Gulf escalation. But let’s be honest: who exactly is being warned here? The British government, which has spent the last decade outsourcing its foreign policy to a reality TV star? Or the British public, who are busy trying to decide whether to boil the kettle before or after the nuclear sirens start wailing?
The logic, if one can call it that, appears to be thus: Iran, in its infinite wisdom as a theocratic basket case, has been enriching uranium at rates that alarm the International Atomic Energy Agency. Trump, in his infinite wisdom as a pathological narcissist with a spray tan addiction, has decided that the only way to stop them is to threaten them with a war that will cost billions, destabilise the entire region, and probably result in a few thousand British expats having to learn Farsi. Because that’s what we need: more oil wars fought by people who can’t even pronounce ‘petrodollar’ without drooling.
The sheer absurdity of the situation is breathtaking. Here is a man who promised to end endless wars, who spent his first term tweeting about how he alone could fix the Middle East, now demanding funding for a conflict that even his own generals have described as a ‘quagmire’ with a side of ‘apocalypse’. But then, consistency has never been his strong suit. Why bother with logic when you can have spectacle? Why bother with diplomacy when you can have a ticker-tape parade for a war that hasn’t even started yet?
Meanwhile, the British government is in a state of what can only be described as ‘controlled panic’. They’re making the right noises about de-escalation and diplomatic solutions, but everyone knows that when Uncle Sam calls, you answer. Even if the call is from a phone that looks like a golden toilet. The Prime Minister, a man whose leadership style can best be described as ‘bewildered vicar at a rock concert’, is probably already drafting a supporting statement that will be about as convincing as a chocolate teapot.
And what of the cost, you ask? Oh, the cost. Trump is demanding billions, which for a country that has already racked up more debt than a gambling addict at a casino blackjack table is quite the ask. But never fear: the American taxpayer will foot the bill, as always. And when the war inevitably goes wrong, as all US-Middle Eastern adventures do, they’ll be told it’s a noble cause, a fight for freedom, and anyway, the Democrats did it too.
In the end, this is just another episode in the long-running soap opera that is global politics. A mad king in a gilded tower demands a war. His minions nod and salivate. And the rest of us are left to wonder if we should start stockpiling tinned beans or just accept our fate as extras in a particularly grim episode of Black Mirror. Either way, the gin supply is running low, and that might be the most terrifying prospect of all.
