In a spectacle that would make even the most jaded Westminster hack choke on their single malt, President Joe Biden last night called his predecessor a ‘loser’ at a glitzy Democrat fundraiser. The remark, delivered with the theatrical flair of a pantomime villain, echoed across the Atlantic, where British observers – fortified by biscuits and a sense of weary superiority – noted the deepening cracks in the special relationship.
Let us, for a moment, divorce ourselves from the sheer puerility of it all. Here we have the leader of the free world, a man whose hair seems to be locked in a permanent struggle with gravity, calling another septuagenarian a loser. It is, to put it in the vernacular of our times, a bit much. But this is the circus we now inhabit, a world where geopolitics descends into schoolyard taunts while the rest of us cling to the hope that someone, somewhere, is still using a dictionary.
From the salons of Mayfair to the pubs of Penge, the reaction was predictable. A collective tut-tutting, a sigh, and a muttered ‘bloody Yanks’. British diplomats, trained to couch insults in passive-aggressive pleasantries, watched in horror as Biden deployed the nuclear option of playground terminology. It is as if the entire West has been gripped by a fever, a madness where decorum is discarded like last week’s copy of the Telegraph.
But let’s not be too hasty to judge. The British political stage is not exactly a paragon of dignity. We gave the world Boris Johnson, a man whose hair is a metaphor for his chaotic governance, and Liz Truss, whose premiership lasted roughly the same time as a lettuce. Yet even by our standards, calling your predecessor a ‘loser’ is a step too far. It’s like the Queen swearing at a garden party: technically possible, but deeply unsettling.
The transatlantic instability is real, and it’s not just about two old men shouting at each other. It reflects a broader collapse in political discourse, a race to the bottom where the aim is not to govern but to provoke. The British observer, nursing a gin and tonic, can only watch with a mixture of horror and fascination. We are the residents of a tatty seaside resort, watching the big city burn from a distance, secure in the knowledge that our own fires are just as hot.
What does this mean for the special relationship? Probably not much, in real terms. Trade deals continue, intelligence is shared, and the Queen’s corgis remain blissfully unaware of the chaos. But the veneer of civility has been scratched, and underneath is a snarling mess of egos and insults. The British can only offer their sympathies and a stiff drink.
So here’s to Joe Biden, who reminded us that even presidents can be childish. Here’s to Donald Trump, who will no doubt have a pithy comeback ready. And here’s to us, the humble British observers, who sip our tea and wonder when the world became a reality TV show with no off switch. Cheers.
