London, that soggy island of repressed emotions and cold tea, was set ablaze last night. Not by the customary faulty fuse, but by a Puerto Rican hurricane in a sequined tracksuit. Bad Bunny, the world’s most bankable exponent of reggaeton, decided that the Queen’s former backyard would make an excellent venue for a history-making stadium show. And history was made, if by history you mean the sound of 90,000 Britons attempting to twerk in unison while simultaneously queuing for an overpriced beer.
It was a glorious, chaotic middle finger to the notion of British cultural supremacy. For decades, we’ve exported stiff upper lips, dreary period dramas, and the world’s most depressing cuisine. Last night, the import was a man who sings about buttocks with the same reverence our poets reserve for daffodils. The crowd, a bewildering mix of TikTok teens, bemused parents, and the sort of middle-aged men who still think ‘Despacito’ is the height of foreign culture, roared with the collective abandon of a football riot without the violence.
To witness 90,000 people screaming ‘¡DÁLE!’ in a city where the most common exclamation is ‘Sorry, my fault!’ is to witness the death rattle of English reserve. Bad Bunny, a man whose name suggests a plague of floppy-eared rodents, has inadvertently taught the British public how to have fun without the lubricant of four pints of lager. It was a cultural exchange of sorts: he brought the rhythm, they brought the rainy weather and the bewildered look of a nation that still cannot comprehend why anyone would willingly eat a Jaffa Cake.
The concert itself was a masterclass in cognitive dissonance. A man in a puffer jacket and a cowboy hat gyrated to beats that sounded like a robot having a seizure in a mariachi band. Fireworks exploded with such regularity that the local fire brigade was put on standby. The laser show could have doubled as an extra-terrestrial landing. And all the while, the audience, a sea of mobile phones held aloft, recorded every moment for posterity or, more likely, for their Instagram stories.
Critics will say this is the end of civilisation. That a man who sings about his ‘nave’ (navel) and ‘culo’ (derriere) is an unsuitable role model for a generation. But these are the same critics who think ‘Last Night of the Proms’ is a thrilling cultural event. Last night, London wasn’t just losing its inhibitions; it was losing its bloody mind. And I, for one, welcome our new Latin overlords.
So raise a glass of lukewarm prosecco to Bad Bunny, the man who made the British public forget their own awkwardness for three hours. He may not have built a wall, but he certainly built a bridge. A bridge made of bass, glitter, and the collective realisation that dancing badly to music you don’t understand is the most British thing you can do.
