In a development that has sent diplomats scrambling for the nearest gin and tonic, the United Nations has formally demanded that Iran release the Foreman family. Yes, the Foremans. The British-linked clan currently cooling their heels in an Iranian detention centre for reasons as opaque as the bottom of a neglected martini glass.
Let us dissect this farce, shall we? The UN, that august body of endless committees and even more endless speeches, has suddenly discovered its backbone. Or perhaps it has merely misplaced its deference to Tehran. Either way, it is now insisting that the Foremans be set free. Why? Because, apparently, holding a family hostage is not quite cricket. Not even the sort of cricket played by moustachioed chaps in blazers on a village green. This is the unsporting, ungentlemanly sort of hostage-taking that gives geopolitical crises a bad name.
The Foremans, if you have not been following this exquisite tragedy, are a British-Iranian family who have been detained in Iran for reasons that shift like sand dunes in a Siropian desert. First, they were spies. Then they were not spies. Then they were spies again, but only for the weather. Now they are simply 'guests' of the state, which in Iranian parlance means 'hostages with better accommodation.'
The UN's demand is as predictable as a hangover after a night on the cheap sherry. But will Iran listen? Will it heck. The mullahs have a script, and they are sticking to it. They will bluster, they will threaten, they will produce a grainy video of the Foremans playing backgammon and saying they love Iranian hospitality. Then they will demand a ransom. Not in cash, of course. That would be vulgar. They want sanctions lifted. They want the Swiss to send them chocolate. They want a seat at the grown-ups' table without having to eat their vegetables.
Meanwhile, the British government is in a state of high dudgeon. Or perhaps it is low dudgeon. It is hard to tell with these people. They have issued statements. They have expressed concern. They have said they are 'working through diplomatic channels,' which is Whitehall for 'we have no idea what to do, so we are sending strongly worded notes.' The Foreign Office is a temple of impotent rage, filled with officials who have perfected the art of looking busy while achieving precisely nothing.
And what of the Foremans themselves? They are presumably sitting in their detention centre, dreaming of a proper cup of tea and a biscuit. They are the unwilling stars of a geopolitical drama that has all the coherence of a drunk man's soliloquy. They are bargaining chips. Human pawns in a game of chess where the rules are made up on the spot and the board is on fire.
In the end, this crisis will be resolved not through principled diplomacy but through a backroom deal involving a Swiss bank account, a crate of pistachios, and a promise not to build any more centrifuges in Qom. The UN will preen. The Iranians will claim victory. The British will hold a press conference. And the Foremans will emerge blinking into the sunlight, wondering what the hell all that was about.
But for now, the crisis deepens. The rhetoric escalates. The gin flows. In my world, this is what passes for news. And it is as absurd as ever.
