In a development that has left the nation’s cultural attachés scratching their monocles, a gentleman named Bad Bunny – presumably a deranged marsupial with a grudge against horticulture, rather than a sartorially-challenged lagomorph – has made history at a London stadium. Yes, you read that correctly. A stadium so vast, so steeped in the hallowed traditions of rain-delayed cricket and lukewarm pies, that it now plays host to a Puerto Rican pop juggernaut. The headline, as delivered by the breathless hacks of Fleet Street, declares: “Bad Bunny makes history at London stadium – Britain’s cultural influence dominates global music.” I shall pause here to allow the howls of derisive laughter to subside.
Let us dissect this abominable piece of logic, shall we? The argument, as far as I can glean from the gin-soaked depths of my consciousness, runs thus: A non-British artist performs in Britain. Ergo, Britain’s cultural influence is dominant. By this reasoning, if a Frenchman eats a baguette in London, the British baking industry is clearly conquering the world. If a German drinks beer in Birmingham, we can safely assume the entire hop-growing sector of Bavaria is now a vassal state of Her Majesty. It is arrant nonsense, of course. The sort of nonsense that would make a sanity inspector weep into his Earl Grey.
Bad Bunny, for the uninitiated – and I count myself among that blessed number – is a global superstar. He sells out arenas. He has more number ones than a dyslexic bingo caller. But his appearance at this London venue, this coliseum of commerce, is not a testament to British cultural might. It is a testament to the mighty power of cold, hard cash. London is a global hub. It has big venues. It has people willing to part with vast sums for a ticket. To conflate this with “cultural influence” is like claiming your local kebab shop has achieved culinary dominance because a man from Istanbul walked through its doors.
What, one wonders, is the alleged British cultural influence that is so dominating global music? Is it the dulcet tones of a Morris dancer beating a bladder on a stick? The melancholic wail of a bagpipe? The frantic strumming of a ukulele from a man in a Harris tweed jacket? Or is it, more likely, the fact that British record labels and promoters have, for decades, been exceptionally good at monetising global talent? That is not culture. That is commerce. It is the business of selling tickets and t-shirts. It is the gentle art of extracting currency from the pockets of the young and the excitable.
But let us not be entirely cynical. There is a certain beauty in the absurdity of it all. Here is a man, born in Puerto Rico, singing in Spanish, with an aesthetic that owes more to wrestling than to the Royal Variety Performance, standing in a stadium built for a sport that involves hitting a leather ball with a bat and then running between two sticks. And the press call this a victory for British culture. It is like claiming a victory for British cuisine because a Michelin-starred chef from Tokyo chooses to open a restaurant in Mayfair. It is the triumph of real estate over reality.
And what of the music itself? Bad Bunny’s oeuvre, I am informed, is a blend of reggaeton, Latin trap, and other genres that I, as a fogey of a certain vintage, can only nod at sagely while secretly yearning for the simple days of punk rock. But the man is a phenomenon. He has sold out nights that would make the Rolling Stones blush. And he chose to do it in London. Why? Because London is a hub, a nexus, a swirling vortex of money and ambition. Not because he was moved by the poetry of John Betjeman or the architecture of the Barbican.
In conclusion, let us have a moment of clarity. Bad Bunny in London is a story about globalisation, capitalism, and the sheer star power of a man with a funny name. It is not a story about British cultural influence. That is a headline written by someone who has confused the venue with the victory. It is a nonsense. A glorious, gin-soaked nonsense. And I, for one, shall raise a glass to it. Cheers to the bunny. Cheers to the stadium. And cheers to the beautiful, brain-melting absurdity of modern journalism.
