In a move that has left the world’s diplomatic corps choking on their canapés, the US Navy has reportedly lobbed a missile at an Iran-bound oil tanker, transforming a perfectly good vessel into a floating barbecue. The tanker, whose name is probably something like ‘SS Let’s Not Start World War III,’ was merrily chugging along when Uncle Sam decided it was the perfect time for a naval pyrotechnic display. The Pentagon, in a statement that reads like a rejected Michael Bay script, claims the action was ‘proportionate and defensive.’ Proportionate to what, one wonders? The threat of a teapot rebellion? Meanwhile, British shipping lanes, those hallowed sea roads where our tea and digestive biscuits travel, are now apparently under threat from… well, everyone with a boat and a grudge.
Let us not mince words: this is the naval equivalent of a pub brawl where someone has thrown the first punch and the rest of the regulars are deciding whether to join in or call the police. The British government, ever the diplomat, has issued a statement that is so carefully worded it could be used as a form of contraception. ‘We are monitoring the situation closely,’ they bleat, which is code for ‘we have no idea what to do and are hoping everyone calms down before the Queen’s corgis get involved.’
The real question is this: what the devil was a US Navy warship doing in the middle of this particular patch of briny during tea time? Could it be that our cousins across the pond have finally snapped? Perhaps they’ve had enough of our superior marmalade and decided to take it out on the nearest flammable object. Or maybe it’s a simple case of misplaced aggression: someone in the White House confused ‘Iran-bound’ with ‘iron-bound’ and thought it was a type of chain. Whatever the reason, the result is the same: another day, another crisis, and my gin and tonic is getting warm.
Let us examine the so-called ‘threat to British shipping lanes.’ What threat? Is it the Iranians? The pirates? The ghost of Captain Bligh? The Royal Navy, that proud institution that once ruled the waves, is now apparently so stretched that a leaky rowing boat from Dover could cause a panic. The government’s solution, no doubt, will be to increase the price of stamps or appoint a new Minister for Nautical Nonsense. Meanwhile, the average British sailor is left wondering whether his next voyage will be to Rotterdam or Davy Jones’s locker.
But let us not forget the tanker itself. That poor, innocent vessel, just trying to deliver its cargo of crude to a nation that probably wanted to turn it into something more socially acceptable. Instead, it’s now either at the bottom of the ocean or limping home with a hole the size of a London bus. And for what? To prove a point? To remind the world that America still has the biggest stick in the playground? The whole affair reeks of desperation, a desperate attempt to look tough while the rest of the world wonders if they’ve lost the plot.
My advice to the British government: stop wringing your hands and start wringing some necks. Or at least, send a strongly worded letter to the Pentagon asking them to kindly refrain from using our neighbourhood as a shooting gallery. In the meantime, I’ll be in the pub, raising a glass to the brave sailors who just wanted to go home and watch ‘Coronation Street.’ Cheers!
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a bottle of Gordon’s and a profound sense of despair.
