The thing I love about the English, is that they’re better, and know they’re better, but they don’t rub your nose in it if you’re a benighted savage, outlander colonial barbarian such as I.
The English are effortless in their superiority, you might say, even though their empire has shrunk. They have style, which bloody colonial Americans try as they might, will never have.
In fact, Americans might be compared to Germans. Our tourists often act the same, brash, loud, crude, overbearing.
I’ll admit I’m an Anglophile. Foremost is the way the English talk, that beautiful lyrical way, the aesthetically pleasing musings of angels, the King’s English. When the English speak, they’re so sexy (I’m secretly in love with Sarah Ferguson).
Of course, I’m leaving out Cockney, Welsh, Irish, Scotch, and other linguistic aberrations caused by economic or military misfortune. The English, high English that is, speak the way Shakespeare intended.
You listen, and the words seem so refined, hinting at nobility and restraint, the highest goals of civilization. The English just sound more intelligent. Maybe we should have stayed with England, not declared independence after all.
Granted, the English have some problems. Their tax system for one. We won’t even mention that. Peter O’Toole in the movie Lawrence of Arabia (English actors are always better than American), said England is a fat country full of fat people. Yet the English, especially their men, are often so thin—-and pale. You never saw skin so fair, like the sun never shined.
Today, if you walk down a London street, you’re just as likely to bump into an Asian English wanna-be with a ruby positioned between his eyes, but the English, except for their poor-class rowdies, seem to tolerate such things with haughty patience.
Tony Blair is one of the most likable tax-and-spend liberals I’ve ever seen.
If we had stayed part of England and not broken away, the Beatles would be us. So would Princess Di. We could be closer in our worship. If we don’t love the English and want to be like them, then how come when one of the Beatles die, retrospectives run for 15 weeks in newspapers across this country. I’ll bet when Fabian dies, there’s one little column on page 12Z at the back of the paper.
The nobility, the pomp and pageantry of the English court, continues to dazzle Americans as if we were still country bumpkins firing flintlock rifles at a rabble of starving Indians outside a crude log fort somewhere in the wilds of Ohio.
I think it’s time for the American people, represented by myself, to admit that although we broke away all those years ago, this blessed realm, this gem, this England, is still woven into the fabric of our hearts. England is like a rich uncle you’re proud of, and you brag to friends, “he’s my uncle.”