Well, blow me down with a feather duster. Xi Jinping and Kim Jong-un have done it again. They’ve shaken hands, exchanged platitudes about ‘ironclad alliances,’ and probably shared a secret handshake involving nuclear warheads and fondue pots.
This time, the setting was Pyongyang, a city famous for its spectacular military parades and its equally spectacular lack of decent gin. The two leaders, who between them control enough firepower to turn London into a car park, have sworn eternal friendship. This, of course, means nothing except that Kim can now add ‘Best Friend of the World’s Second Most Powerful Man’ to his collection of ironic hats.
Meanwhile, Britain, that plucky little island nation still clinging to the delusion of influence, has called for UN scrutiny. Yes, the very UN that couldn’t agree on which flavour of crisps to have in the vending machine will now be asked to wag its collective finger at North Korea. Marvellous.
This is about as effective as asking a goldfish to guard your whiskey cabinet. Let’s not beat around the crumbling bush. The ‘ironclad alliance’ is code for ‘We’ll prop each other up until one of us gets bored or invaded.
’ China needs North Korea as a buffer state, like a nervous man needs a flak jacket at a Trump rally. North Korea needs China for survival, because no amount of rocket man poses can substitute for actual food and fuel. It’s a marriage of convenience, sealed with a kiss of self-interest.
The British response, as per usual, is a masterpiece of bureaucratese. ‘We call on all parties to uphold international norms,’ they drone, while simultaneously slashing the foreign aid budget and selling arms to the highest bidder. Oh, the glorious hypocrisy.
It’s enough to make a grown journalist weep into his nightly gin ration. The reality is that this summit changes nothing. North Korea will continue to develop weapons that look suspiciously like sex toys from a dystopian future.
China will continue to be the polite shopkeeper of the world, turning a blind eye while North Korea does its worst. And Britain will continue to issue statements that sound impressive but have the force of a wet lettuce. In the end, it’s all theatre.
The audience shuffles in uncomfortable seats, munching on stale popcorn, while the actors on stage pretend they’re not reading from a script written by cynical old men in smoke-filled rooms. The only question left is: will anyone have the decency to pass the bottle when the curtain falls? I doubt it.
