In a development that has sent shockwaves through the dwindling ranks of people who still read newspapers, the UN's nuclear chief has confirmed that inspections of Iran's atomic facilities are proceeding with all the vigour of a man who's just discovered his gin and tonic has been garnished with a gherkin. Rafael Grossi, a man whose job title sounds like it requires a cape but almost certainly doesn't, announced that International Atomic Energy Agency inspectors are now roaming Iran's nuclear sites like particularly well-educated ghosts, checking for signs of weapons-grade mischief.
Meanwhile, His Majesty's Government, recently relocated to what appears to be a Wetherspoons in Reykjavik for the duration of the Brexit hangover, is watching the Tehran deal with the kind of intense scrutiny usually reserved for the last-minute addition of a 'service charge' to a restaurant bill. A source close to Downing Street, who spoke on condition of anonymity for fear of being force-fed a Greggs sausage roll, revealed that the Prime Minister is 'cautiously optimistic' about the deal, a diplomatic phrase that translates roughly as 'we have absolutely no idea what's going on but we're hoping for the best while simultaneously bracing for the end of days'.
The nuclear deal, known formally as the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action or, to its friends, 'The One That Trump Cancelled For Some Reason,' is back on the table after years of shuttle diplomacy involving more planes than a rerun of 'Airport '77.' Iran, for its part, has been edging ever closer to weapons-grade enrichment, a process that involves twiddling centrifuges and looking menacing, while insisting that its nuclear programme is entirely peaceful and that any mushroom clouds you might see are just an unusual form of cloud formation called 'apocalyptic cumulus.'
Grossi, who has the weary demeanour of a man who's spent too long in rooms filled with people arguing about uranium hexafluoride, told reporters that his inspectors were 'on the ground and engaging with their Iranian counterparts,' which in the surreal language of international diplomacy means they're probably sharing a rather tense cup of chai while trying not to mention the time Israel blew up a nuclear facility with a laptop. The inspections are routine, he insisted, like taking the car for an MOT, except the car could theoretically destroy a city and the MOT inspector speaks Farsi.
Britain's role in all this is, as ever, to stand on the sidelines, wring its hands, and occasionally issue a statement that sounds both firm and entirely useless. Foreign Secretary James Hyphenated-Surname has warned that 'all options remain on the table,' a threat that presumably includes sending a strongly worded letter, cutting off diplomatic relations, or, in a worst-case scenario, renaming the Iranian embassy's road to 'Admiral Lord Nelson Sinatra Close.'
The deal's revival hinges on Washington lifting sanctions, a process that requires the US Congress to agree on something, which history suggests is about as likely as a Conservative MP admitting they enjoy the singing of 'The Red Flag.' In the meantime, Iran enriches uranium at levels that make nuclear non-proliferation experts clutch their pearls and whisper 'good heavens' into their Earl Grey.
As the sun sets on another day of diplomatic intrigue, one thing is clear: the world's nuclear watchdog is doing sterling work, Britain is watching with the kind of intensity normally reserved for the final minutes of a penalty shootout, and somewhere, a centrifuge is spinning with the quiet dignity of a ballerina who's had one too many espressos. Whether this ends in peace or a puff of radioactive smoke remains to be seen, but for now, the gin is flowing and the satire writes itself.
