In a move that has diplomats reaching for the extra-strength headache pills, Donald Trump has demanded the US-Iran nuclear agreement be retrofitted with a 'track changes' feature, because apparently the original document didn't have enough of his signature in fluorescent highlighter. The former president, who still believes nuclear negotiations work like a season finale of The Apprentice, has insisted on what his aides call 'structural improvements' - a phrase that in normal language translates to 'scrapping everything and starting with a wall of emojis'.
Meanwhile, the United Kingdom, that noble nation of stiff upper lips and even stiffer drinks cabinets, is pressing for 'stronger nuclear safeguards', a euphemism for 'we don't trust anyone near a centrifuge, especially not a man who thinks uranium is a new energy drink'. British diplomats have been spotted pacing Whitehall corridors muttering about 'enrichment levels' and 'verification protocols', which is simply their way of saying they want to read the small print before Iran accidentally invents the world's most aggressive toaster.
One can only imagine the scene in Geneva: Trump's team, all comb-over and grievance, demanding the deal be printed on golden parchment with a clause allowing him to tweet alternative facts directly into the treaty text. The Iranians, for their part, are reportedly confused by the demand for a 'redo button' on a document that has already seen more rewrites than a mid-season soap opera.
But let's not forget the true victim in all this: the English language. 'Nuclear safeguards'? 'Structural improvements'? We've taken a perfectly good word like 'deal' and buried it under so many layers of diplomatic oatmeal that you'd need a security clearance just to order lunch.
And where are the people in all this? Sat in their living rooms, watching the news with the sound of low-flying anxiety circling overhead. They know, as we all do, that the real game here is not about uranium enrichment or centrifuge cascades. It's about ego. It's about who can look most statesmanlike while pushing the world closer to a mushroom cloud. Or, in Trump's case, who can look most like an angry garden gnome after a double espresso.
The UK's insistence on 'stronger safeguards' is like asking a toddler to 'please use your indoor voice' when they're already halfway through demolishing the living room. The safeguards we really need are against the reckless vanity of men who treat international diplomacy as a reality TV audition.
So here we are, citizens of the world, trapped between a man who thinks adding his name to something improves it, and a government that wants to put legally binding safety labels on everything. I propose we cut through the nonsense. Let's rename the deal 'The Actually Non-Exploding Agreement' and have all parties sign it in a pub, under strict supervision of the landlord. At least the gin there would be honest.
In the meantime, I suggest we all follow the only sensible course of action: pour a large G&T, turn off the news, and pray that the next 'structural improvement' isn't accidentally enriching our water supply. Because if there's one thing we've learned from history, it's that when politicians start demanding edits, it's time to check your life insurance policy.
