COOLISH BRITANNIA
As I sit aboard a Boeing Dreamliner, flying back to Hollywood, I already feel pieces of me blowing away like the dandelion fluff my children never allow me to simply walk past. I am reminded on all my transatlantic journeys that what seeds in England is incapable of departing. It produces a disjointed feeling that leaves one never quite whole or present, except for those few weeks out of the year when inhaling the Big Smoke. I’m not knocking Los Angeles. There are few places on earth like it, where someone with a good education but as little a technical skillset as myself can forge a decent life. Simply espouse progressive ideals, and someone somewhere will find something useful for you to do. Still, it’s not London. Nowhere is.
There is the greater part of an eleven hour flight ahead of me, and I have the sole care of my two young children, whose executive mother is on another flight due to work. There is only so much snacks and tablets (the digital kind) can achieve, but at least the days of changing nappies in aeroplane toilets are behind me. Why children save poo explosions for 39,000 feet up is beyond my comprehension. Something to do with the altitude inspires the release, I suppose. Thank God for gaming technology. I unashamedly employ it as a child minder, and a world of judgment cannot turn me from the hour or two of freedom it grants me. I’m taking advantage of such allotments of time to read the diary entries of Noel Coward. I dare say he would have given each of my children a martini, and they would have slept most of the way to L.A., despite the aircraft chasing the sun.
As I contemplate the world renown antagonism that awaits at US immigration – officers who view anyone who would wish to holiday outside of America as predisposed to treason – I think of what has become of my beloved Britain. A majestic mess, I’d say. HM Government are forever grateful to Gordon Brown for granting the Bank of England its independence. Now, Threadneedle Street may be blamed for the dire straights in which the UK finds itself at any given moment and its autonomy a great excuse for the government to do nothing when faced with the latest crisis… the Bank destroyed the economy, so of course the NHS has yet to recover from pandemic strains, and how could the new Jerusalem not find itself plagued by a faltering public transport system, strikes, and a general sense of ennui, which, by the way, the French wear far better than Anglo-Saxons. For the British, such malaise simply comes off like a brown suit of decline bought with ration stamps.
The UK’s Conservative government, bone tired after too many years in power and embracing short-lived hashtags over substantive policy, criticizes the Bank of England for pumping a locked-down economy full of money, which has led to interest rates remaining stubbornly high. Then the Bank raises interest rates further, battering the mortgages of the middle class. The government haven’t said what the alternative was to propping up millions of lives during the pandemic and pretend to not understand that once a business raises prices, it will be loathe to lower them during better times.
For its part, the BoE picks at an open wound, pointing to Brexit as the source of all woes and strife, as well as being an exit they repeatedly warned would be devastating. When predicting calamity, the perceived delivery is essential, otherwise you look the fool. And so it goes, back and forth, and no true and brave leadership emerges to set things to right. Yes, I am aware the greatest threat to a politician’s (or a banker’s for that matter) career is to take action that is considered brave, but desperate times call for desperate measures. We are living through an epoch of constant catastrophe, accompanied by inexhaustible whinging.
Yet, there has been a surprisingly moving coronation, too, a royal funeral that was a farewell for so many who were not given the chance to say goodbye in 2020 and 2021, and that momentous jubilee of marmalade sandwiches and corgis, all in the space of one bizarre, manic, and glorious year. A seamless transition from Queen to King, in which everything and nothing changed. The bloodletting of a general election will complete the renewal. There is one thing about this country that is undeniable. It has proven itself capable of rejuvenation on a majestic scale time and time again.
London of the 90s was my youth. The music, the theatre, the romcoms… London became the earth’s capital during the era of spice and cocky lyrics. After standing and dancing at Wembley Stadium a few weeks ago for the world’s newest pop icon, Harry Styles, I can say I felt absolutely certain that Britain will be confident and cool again. Plus, there’s that fabulous, new, air-conditioned Elizabeth Line, and a pint with chips is still considerably less expensive than in the States. Now to leave behind the sun and stifling heat of a British summer for the gloomy Southern California skies.