In a development so dripping with theatrical absurdity it could only have been orchestrated by a man who once sold steaks from a hotel lobby, the former (and future?) President Donald J. Trump has signed a sweeping US-Iran deal within the gilded halls of the Palace of Versailles. The treaty, reportedly scribbled on a cocktail napkin from the Hotel de Paris, promises to 'bring peace to the Middle East' while simultaneously giving Iran access to the McDonald's franchise rights in Tehran. British diplomats, meanwhile, are said to be 'deeply concerned' about their exclusion from the festivities, primarily because they were not offered a decent cup of tea and were forced to watch the signing from behind a velvet rope like common tourists.
Let us pause to savour the sheer, exquisite ludicrousness of this tableau. Here is a man whose hair defies both gravity and logic, standing before the Hall of Mirrors, a monument to French absolutism, inking a deal with a nation that has not seen a mirror since the Shah's peacock throne was auctioned off on eBay. The deal, we are told, will 'stabilise the region' – a phrase so meaningless it might as well have been whispered into the ear of a deaf man by a ventriloquist. One Iranian delegate was overheard exclaiming, 'This is the best deal since the Treaty of Paris,' before being corrected by a historian that the Treaty of Paris (1783) was also a rather shoddy bit of work that left everyone confused.
But let us not dwell on the substance, for there is none. The real news is the exquisite agony of the British diplomatic corps, who have been reduced to peering through the keyhole of history, clutching their umbrellas and muttering about 'protocol.' Sir Humphrey Wellington-Bottom, a man whose liver is pickled in sherry and indignation, was quoted as saying, 'This is an absolute outrage. We were not even consulted about the canapés. The quiche lorraine was lukewarm, and there was a distinct lack of Branston pickle. The Empire would never have stood for it.' This, ladies and gentlemen, is the state of British foreign policy: reduced to complaining about the temperature of pastry while the world order is carved up like a supermarket rotisserie chicken.
The deal itself is a masterpiece of obfuscation. Clause 12, I am told, states that Iran must cease all uranium enrichment in exchange for the exclusive rights to produce Trump-branded uranium-free water. Clause 47, a personal favourite, stipulates that all future negotiations must be conducted via Twitter, with a minimum of three typos per tweet. Experts are divided on the implications. One analyst, who wished to remain anonymous for fear of being mocked by his peers, said, 'This is either the greatest diplomatic coup since the Congress of Vienna, or the most catastrophic blunder since Napoleon decided to invade Russia in winter. Possibly both.' The French, ever the pragmatists, have already begun selling commemorative Eiffel Tower paperweights made from melted-down missiles.
Meanwhile, back in Brussels, European Union officials are holding an emergency meeting to decide whether to issue a 'strongly worded statement' or a 'very strongly worded statement.' The difference, I gather, is the font size. One imagines the committee on font selection is still deliberating. British diplomats, however, are not at the table, which is just as well because they would only ask for the meeting to be adjourned for a proper tea break.
In the end, what have we learned? That history is a farce, diplomacy is a pantomime, and the only constant is the bewildering capacity of the powerful to act as though their petty squabbles matter. As I drain my miniature bottle of duty-free gin (it's Gordon's, because I have standards), I raise a glass to the strange, surreal circus that is global politics. The deal will probably collapse within the hour, but the canapés were free, and that is all that really matters.
