In a move that has left diplomats reaching for the smelling salts and historians reaching for their Prozac, Donald Trump has signed a new Versailles-style pact with Iran, apparently mistaking the Palace of Versailles for a particularly opulent branch of Mar-a-Lago. The agreement, hastily scribbled on what appears to be a napkin from the golf clubhouse, promises 'eternal peace and mutual back-scratching' between the two nations, or at least until the next tee time.
The UK, meanwhile, has issued a stern warning about 'unfinished nuclear business', which is diplomatic code for 'we spent billions on Trident and we'll be damned if we don't get to wave it about a bit'. The Foreign Office, in a statement that reeked of desperation and stale tea, declared that the pact 'leaves a significant number of centrifuges un-spun and a considerable amount of enriched uranium un-enriched'. This is, apparently, a bad thing.
One can only imagine the scene at the signing. There's Trump, fountain pen in hand, squinting at the small print, while Iranian diplomats twiddle their worry beads and wonder if they've accidentally agreed to host the next Republican National Convention. The document itself is said to be a masterpiece of obfuscation, with clauses that promise 'mutual respect for sovereignty' and 'a shared love of reality television'. It's the kind of deal that makes the Treaty of Versailles look like a well-negotiated car warranty.
Back in London, politicians are doing what they do best: forming committees. A 'Joint Select Committee on Unfinished Nuclear Business' has been convened, chaired by a man who once confused a centrifuge with a centipede. Their findings, due in 2030, will likely conclude that the whole thing is a bit of a mess and recommend more tea and biscuits.
Meanwhile, the man on the street – that mythical creature who pays for all this – is left bewildered. He's worried about the price of gin, the state of the railways, and why his bin wasn't emptied. Nuclear business? Unfinished? He thought that was just his DIY projects.
In other news, a leading authority on pacts has pointed out that the term 'Versailles' is often used to imply a punitive peace that sows the seeds of future conflict. But, he reassured, this pact is more of a 'Versailles lite' – a sort of diet peace that only leads to moderate resentment and simmering tensions. So that's alright then.
As the sun sets on this glorious diplomatic triumph, one thing is clear: Trump has once again proven that he can negotiate his way out of a paper bag, provided the bag is made of the finest Persian silk and contains a complimentary selection of dried fruits. The UK, meanwhile, will continue to polish its nuclear warheads and mutter about the good old days of Empire. And somewhere, in a parallel universe, there's a diplomatic cable being written that begins with 'Mon Dieu' and ends with 'I need a stiff drink'.
