In a development that has White House gardeners reaching for their flak jackets and drone operators clutching their joypads a little tighter, it emerges that Her Majesty’s most clandestine operatives are currently tracking an armed militia. The plot, you see, involved drones and a sniper. Because nothing says 'I have a legitimate grievance with the state' like a long-range rifle and a remote-controlled plane from Argos.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the world we now inhabit. A world where the most sophisticated intelligence apparatus on the planet is reduced to monitoring men in balaclavas who think they’re starring in a direct-to-DVD sequel to 'Red Dawn'. But let us not mock. Let us savour the sheer, gut-busting absurdity of it all. The UK spies, probably sipping tea from a thermos in the back of a nondescript van, are tracking these whey-faced warriors as they shuffle through the undergrowth, their faces painted with the courage of 5% battery life on a cheap drone.
The plot, according to sources who may or may not have been compensated in single malt and fags, involved targeting the White House. Yes, the White House. The building with more guns than a Texas wedding and more security than a Buckingham Palace state banquet. A drone and a sniper. Against the most fortified residence on Earth. It’s like bringing a pea shooter to a nuclear war. But the militia men, bless their cotton socks, clearly believed they had a chance. Perhaps they were inspired by the video games of their youth. Or perhaps they just fancied a bit of fresh air and a chance to be shot at by professionals.
Meanwhile, back in the real world, the spies are tracking them. Because that’s what spies do. They track. They log. They write reports in triplicate. They probably have a spreadsheet titled 'Militia Morons - Daily Progress' with columns for 'Number of times they tripped over their own bootlaces' and 'How many conspiracy theories can they recite before noon.' The answer to the latter is, I suspect, 'all of them'.
And let us not forget the drones. The great equaliser. The toy that every paranoid loner now sees as a tool of insurrection. These flying eyes are now so cheap that even a militia with a collective IQ of a wet paper bag can afford one. They hover, they buzz, they record grainy footage that looks like it was shot through a swimming pool. And then, in this case, they probably crash into a tree or a Secret Service agent with a tennis racket.
But the real story here is not the plot. The real story is the theatre. The grand, ludicrous, Shakespearean tragedy-comedy of modern political life. Here we have a nation, my nation, Great Britain, deploying its finest intelligence assets to track a band of American fantasists who think they can topple the global order with a taser and a crossbow. We are the slightly embarrassed friend at the party, trying to steer the drunk friend away from the punch bowl before he makes a fool of himself.
I imagine the MI6 briefing: 'Right chaps, we’ve got a live feed from a drone over the Pennsylvania woods. Subject Alpha is currently trying to start a fire with twigs and a magnifying glass. Subject Beta is arguing with Subject Gamma about the correct pronunciation of 'antidisestablishment'. We are to observe and report. And for God’s sake, don’t let them near any sharp objects.'
And so it goes. The spies watch. The militia waffle. The White House gets a fresh coat of rhetoric. And I, Barnaby 'Biff' Thistlethwaite, satirical correspondent and professional drinker, am here to tell you that we are all living in a Monty Python sketch, and the punchline is coming soon. Probably involving a custard pie and a very angry badger.
What have we become? A society so paranoid, so stupefied by endless news cycles and Twitter spats, that we actually believe a bloke with a drone and a deer rifle is a threat to the most powerful office in the world. We have lost all sense of scale. We have lost all perspective. And worst of all, we have lost the ability to laugh at ourselves.
But I haven’t. And if you’ll excuse me, my gin glass is empty, and the world still needs saving from its own idiocy. One column at a time.
