News that former President Donald Trump earned a remarkable sum in 2025 from licensing deals for products including Bibles, a 'Home Alone' cameo, and his own brand of perfume has set off a familiar debate. The juxtaposition of these items – sacred text, family film, and fragrant vanity – might seem absurd, but they unwittingly expose a transatlantic divide in how we value culture. While America flaunts its commercial hustle, Britain clings to its soft power, often wondering why our own cultural exports don’t command such dizzying sums.
Take the Bible licensing. Trump’s team reportedly partnered with a publisher to produce a special edition of the King James Bible, complete with his annotations and, naturally, his name on the cover. The estimated income from this venture: a staggering $10 million. In the UK, such a project would be met with a mix of horror and amusement. Our relationship with the Bible is more reverent, more historical, and decidedly less commercial. Yet the American appetite for branding the sacred is insatiable. It’s not just about faith; it’s about the transaction. The Bible becomes a product, and Trump is the salesman.
Then there's 'Home Alone'. Trump’s cameo in the 1992 classic was a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, but in 2025, it seems his estate negotiated a lucrative licensing deal for a reboot or merchandise tie-in. Here, the cultural difference is stark. America sees nostalgia as a cash cow. Britain, meanwhile, still debates whether it’s proper to profit from childhood memories. Our own festive classics, like 'The Snowman' or 'Love Actually', are precious precisely because they aren’t for sale in the same way. We commodity them gently, through charity singles or tasteful anniversary releases, not by renting out the actors’ likenesses for cereal boxes.
And perfume. Trump’s eponymous fragrance, ostensibly a symbol of opulence, has reportedly earned him millions more. In Britain, celebrity perfumes are ubiquitous too, but we treat them with ironic detachment. We buy them as jokes, as stocking fillers, not as sincere statements of identity. The American approach is earnest: you wear the scent because you believe in the brand. Here, we wear it with a knowing wink, aware of the absurdity.
These three products together encapsulate a deeper truth. America’s commercial culture is a roaring engine, unembarrassed by its contradictions. Trump can sell Bibles and perfume because the market doesn’t require coherence; it requires momentum. Britain, by contrast, holds onto soft power through institutions, manners, and a certain restraint. We export Shakespeare, the BBC, and the monarchy – less tangible, less directly profitable, but still influential. Our cultural grip is in the realm of ideas, not invoices.
But perhaps the gap is narrowing. As the Trump Bible debacle illustrates, even the most sacred British exports can be co-opted. The King James Bible is our text, but it was Trump who capitalised on it. 'Home Alone' was a Fox film (now partly owned by Disney, an American company) but its enduring magic is universal. And perfume, of course, has no nationality. So maybe the real story is not about British soft power versus American commercialism, but about how both are now inextricably mixed. Trump’s income in 2025 simply reminds us that, for better or worse, culture has a price tag. And the price is whatever the market will bear.
