In a development that has sent tremors through the corridors of the Foreign Office and caused at least one senior diplomat to choke on his Earl Grey, Iran’s negotiating position has been bolstered by the latest Israel flare-up. The mullahs of Tehran, those masterful players of the long game, must be rubbing their hands with glee. Not even the most optimistic of their spin doctors could have scripted a better distraction: a nice, messy conflagration in the Holy Land to deflect attention from their own nuclear frolics. Now, whispers from Whitehall suggest that the tired old sanctions regime, that blunt instrument of Western diplomacy, is being discreetly re-examined. Because nothing says ‘principled foreign policy’ quite like scrambling for the off switch the moment a crisis threatens to inconvenience the global gin supply chain.
Let us be clear. The logic here is as twisted as a pretzel baked by a sadist. The argument goes: Israel is behaving badly (which is rather like being surprised that a shark eats fish), therefore Iran cannot be expected to behave any better. So why punish them? Why, instead, should we not relax sanctions, perhaps send a conciliatory basket of pistachios and a note saying ‘Sorry about the whole nuclear thing, old chap’? This is the diplomatic equivalent of a parent telling one misbehaving child that because the other is also being a brat, they are both excused from washing the dishes. The result: a kitchen full of rancid plates and a family glowering at one another.
Meanwhile, the British diplomats tasked with this rethink are no doubt working from home, huddled over Zoom in their dressing gowns, clutching mugs of something stronger than tea. They speak of ‘regional stability’ and ‘de-escalation’ as if those words had any meaning left. But let’s be honest: what they really mean is ‘We haven’t the faintest idea what to do, so let’s try the opposite of what we were doing before, and hope nobody notices.’ And who will pay the price? Why, the usual saps: the ordinary Iranians, already crushed under the jackboot of the regime, who will see their oppressors strengthened; the Israelis, who will face a nuclear-armed neighbour with a chip on its shoulder; and, most tragically of all, the British taxpayer, who will foot the bill for this pièce de résistance of diplomatic bungling.
The sheer audacity of it! Iran, a nation whose leaders have perfected the art of the simultaneous offer and threat, of the negotiation conducted at gunpoint, now finds itself holding a winning hand. The Israeli government, ever obliging in its extremism, has handed them a get-out-of-jail-free card. And the British response? To ponder a retreat. I can almost hear the laughter from Tehran echoing across the Zagros Mountains. It is a sound that should chill the blood of every freedom-loving soul.
This is not diplomacy. This is a farce played out on a world stage, with the audience required to pay for their tickets in blood and treasure. The only thing that will come of this rethink is a renewed appetite for more of the same: more provocation, more appeasement, more of the slow dance toward disaster. So let us raise a glass of something medicinal (I recommend a fine London gin) to the glorious tradition of British foreign policy, where the only consistency is inconsistency, and the only principle is to muddle through until the next crisis. Cheers, you magnificent bastards. You have outdone yourselves.
