In a move that has sent shivers down the spine of every gin-swilling diplomat in Whitehall, the United Nations has announced that its nuclear inspectors will be granted a guided tour of Iran's atomic facilities. The British government, in a fit of what can only be described as bureaucratic heroism, has insisted that this is a non-negotiable condition of any deal. Because nothing says 'trust' like having a Swiss man in a lab coat prodding your centrifuges with a Geiger counter.
This is, of course, a masterclass in diplomatic theatre. The Iranians, who have perfected the art of smiling while moving chess pieces, have graciously agreed to let the inspectors peer through the keyhole of their nuclear programme. It's like inviting a teetotaller to a distillery and expecting them to leave sober.
The British insistence on verification is nothing short of sublime. After all, who better to lecture on nuclear transparency than a nation that once ran the largest empire in history on a diet of tea, gunboats, and plausible deniability? The subtext is unmistakable: 'We don't trust you, but we'll trust these chaps with clipboards and a UN mandate. They're very thorough. They'll check for anything suspicious, like the absence of monocles and stiff upper lips.'
The inspectors, I imagine, will be armed with the latest in detection technology: possibly a divining rod for enriched uranium and a copy of 'Atomic Energy for Dummies' translated into Farsi. Their brief is to ascertain whether Iran is using its nuclear programme for peaceful purposes or, as the hawks in Washington mutter, to power a fleet of flying mullahs.
But let's be honest, the whole affair is a pantomime. The real drama is the clash between West and East, between the memory of empire and the ambition of a new one. Iran knows that the inspectors will find nothing untoward because IR-6 centrifuges look suspiciously like garden ornaments when you paint them white. And Britain knows that the only thing more dangerous than a nuclear Iran is the prospect of having to apologise for the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company's past indiscretions.
So the inspectors will wander through Natanz, nod gravely, and scribble notes that will be filed under 'Future Regret.' The UK will pat itself on the back for its moral authority, completely oblivious to the fact that its own nuclear deterrent is based on Trident missiles that cost more than the entire Iranian education budget. And the world will move on, because it always does.
Meanwhile, in the margins of this grand opera, I shall be at the airport bar, questioning the meaning of verification over a double gin. My inspector's badge? A sinking feeling that the only thing being verified here is the global appetite for farce.
