In a development so predictable it could have been written by a committee of inebriated clairvoyants, the Foreign Office yesterday afternoon issued a statement demanding 'immediate de-escalation' after an Iranian drone, presumably bored with fruitless sorties over the Strait of Hormuz, decided to spice up its afternoon by dropping a payload on a residential street in Kuwait City. One dead. Several injured. A smattering of property damage that will no doubt be billed to the nearest available Western power.
Let us, for a moment, examine the spectacle of British diplomacy in action. Picture a room of men and women with titles so tedious they're probably printed on their underpants. They sit around a walnut table. They have a crisis. They have a form. The form says 'De-escalation: Demand for.' Someone signs it. Someone else stamps it. And voila: a response that is as effective as a wet paper towel in a hurricane.
'The United Kingdom stands with our Gulf allies,' the statement continued, presumably written by a junior clerk who had just finished a PowerPoint on 'Brochures: How to Say Nothing with Maximum Gravity.' No word on whether those allies were consulted before the UK decided to stand with them, but standing is a noble posture, is it not? Much better than running, or indeed, taking cover.
Iran, for its part, will likely issue a denial so ornate it could double as a wedding invitation. 'We deplore these baseless accusations,' they will say. 'Our drones were on a routine meteorological survey.' And the world will nod sagely, because that is what the world does when faced with such brazen absurdity: it nods, it tuts, and it orders another round.
Ah, the Gulf allies. Kuwait, Qatar, the UAE. British colonies in all but name, places where the gin is cold and the loyalty is presumed. We sold them fighter jets, trained their pilots, and in return, we get to fret publicly when they are buzzed by Iranian drones. It is a relationship built on the firmest of foundations: oil, and the mutual agreement that the other might be slightly less terrifying than the alternative.
The real tragedy, of course, is that this story will be superseded within hours by something even more ridiculous. Perhaps a celebrity's divorce. Perhaps a minor royal's unfortunate hat choice. Or perhaps, God forbid, another drone strike, but this time with a better photo opportunity. The news cycle is a hungry beast, and it cannot subsist on the same dead Kuwaiti for more than a single lunch.
And so, we demand de-escalation. We demand it loudly, repeatedly, with the same hollow gravity with which we demand traffic calming measures or tighter regulations on parking. We demand it from actors who have no interest in de-escalating, because escalation is, after all, where the fun is. Escalation is where the power lies. Escalation sells newspapers. De-escalation is for tree surgeons and marriage counsellors.
In the meantime, the people of Kuwait City will bury their dead, patch their walls, and wonder, quietly, whether the British Empire's famous 'stiff upper lip' is really worth the paper it's printed on. And the British Foreign Office will move on to the next crisis, the next demand, the next pointless gesture that proves, once again, that in the theatre of global conflict, the most important role is that of the slightly annoyed but ultimately ineffective prompt.
I need a drink. Preferably one that hasn't been sanctioned.
