In a development that has sent tremors through the corridors of power, the hapless soul who recently attempted to breach the White House perimeter had a pre-existing relationship with the Secret Service, akin to a persistent door-to-door salesman with a death wish. Sources confirm that the suspect, a man whose personal grooming habits suggest he combs his hair with a cheese grater, had been flagged multiple times for making 'inappropriate inquiries' about the President's dental floss preferences and the tensile strength of the Oval Office drapes.
This revelation has prompted an immediate demand for a British security review, because nothing says 'competence' like outsourcing your soul-searching to a nation that once fought a war over a Falkland Islands sheep. The British review team, no doubt comprised of gentlemen who pronounce 'schedule' as 'shed-yule' and believe a proper breakfast includes kippers, will arrive with clipboards, thermos flasks, and a profound sense of moral superiority.
One cannot help but marvel at the sheer incompetence involved. The suspect, whose last known address was a garden shed equipped with a pinhole camera aimed at a squirrel, had apparently managed to accumulate a file thicker than a Dickens novel before anyone thought to check if he knew how to spell 'rendezvous'. The Secret Service, in their infinite wisdom, categorized his previous run-ins as 'low-level nuisances', ranking alongside complaints about potholes and stray cats.
But let us not forget the pièce de résistance: the British review. Imagine a panel of stern-faced civil servants, sipping Earl Grey and tutting at the Yanks' inability to keep a single lunatic off the lawn. They will produce a report densely packed with phrases like 'robust protocols' and 'comprehensive assessment', which will be filed next to a stack of similar reports dating back to the War of 1812. The Americans, for their part, will nod gravely, promise to do better, and then promptly forget the whole affair until the next garden party is gatecrashed by a man in a chicken suit.
In the meantime, the suspect remains in custody, presumably demanding a better class of interrogation biscuit. His run-ins with the Secret Service included an incident where he allegedly tried to enrol the President's dog in a book club, and another where he challenged the Vice President to a thumb war for the fate of the free world. Yet, nobody thought to escalate his case beyond a curt 'Stop that, you horrible man.'
So here we are, once again, with the British poised to tell us what we already know: that our security is a shambles, our priorities are askew, and our collective ability to spot a loon from a mile away has been replaced by a distracted glance and a muttered 'not my department'. The review will cost millions, achieve next to nothing, and serve as the perfect backdrop for a round of self-congratulatory press releases.
As the sun sets on another glorious day of American governance, one can almost hear the clink of teacups from across the pond. The British are coming, and they're bringing clipboards. God save the review.
