Well, well, well. The world's diplomatic wranglers have finally thrown together a US-Iran deal, and the only thing more surprising than the news is that they managed to do it without any of them bursting into flames. The deal, which I gather involves some kind of exchange where Iran promises not to nuke anyone if the West promises to stop looking at them funny, has sent the usual shockwaves through the global theatre of the absurd. And where does our beloved, rain-soaked island fit in? Naturally, the UK has appointed itself a 'critical' role on the UN Security Council, because nothing says 'we're relevant' like turning up to a party you weren't invited to and insisting on doing the washing up.
Let's talk Israel. The Israelis, who have the collective anxiety of a man whose toast has just landed jam-side down on a Persian rug, are now staring at this deal like it's a mirage in the Negev. They see Iran getting billions in sanctions relief, and they imagine a thousand Mullahs twirling their beards and whispering: 'Excellent, now we can afford to develop a nuclear warhead shaped like a giant middle finger.' And to be fair, Israel's concern is understandable. After all, if anyone knows about being the only nuclear power in the region and not wanting competition, it's them. They've built their entire national security strategy on the idea that they are the only ones allowed to have the big, scary toys. The idea of Iran getting even a sniff of nuclear capability is like discovering your neighbour has bought the same lawnmower as you. That is not a metaphor. It is a threat.
Meanwhile, back in Blighty, the UK Security Council's 'critical role' amounts to little more than a well-meant but utterly ineffectual fidget in the corner. The Foreign Office has wheeled out a spokesman who looks like he was assembled from spare parts of forgotten diplomats, and he has declared that Her Majesty's Government will 'champion multilateral dialogue' and 'ensure regional stability' which is diplomatic code for 'we'll send a strongly worded letter and then get distracted by a scandal about badger culling.' The UK's relevance to this deal is roughly equivalent to a spork at a sushi bar: technically useful, but nobody wants to use it.
The deal itself is a masterpiece of obfuscation. It's a 200-page document that could be summarised as: 'Everyone pretends to get what they want until the next election cycle, at which point they will immediately claim the deal was a betrayal and launch a new round of negotiations.' It's the diplomatic equivalent of a game of musical chairs where everyone is too drunk to stand up. And the key players? America, ever the hulking, loud-mouthed uncle, has somehow convinced itself that this deal will be different from the last one. Perhaps it's the change in administration, perhaps it's the gin, but the optimists in Washington are claiming that this time, Iran will behave because we've put a 'compulsory goodwill clause' in the small print. As if the Iranians, who have been playing the game of geopolitical chess for millennia, are going to be tripped up by a clause they can read in the fine print while sipping mint tea.
For Israel, the result is clear: they will feel compelled to act unilaterally. They will conduct airstrikes on things that look vaguely like nuclear facilities, release a statement saying they 'reserve the right to defend themselves', and then the entire circus will start again. The deal, rather than bringing peace, has likely guaranteed a fresh wave of covert operations, leaked intelligence, and anxious press conferences from balding men in uniforms. The Middle East, you see, does not do peace. It does ceasefire, which is just a fancy word for 'we're all reloading.'
So here we are. The US and Iran have signed something, Israel is twitchy, and the UK is polishing a chair at the Security Council that nobody asked them to sit in. The only sensible course of action is to pour a large G&T, watch the pandemonium from a safe distance, and remember that in the grand casino of geopolitics, the house always wins. Especially when the house is located in a basement somewhere in Langley, Virginia, and the drink is warm. Cheers.
