In a move that has sent shivers of confusion through the chanceries of power, His Majesty’s Government has officially backed Puerto Rico’s right to cultural self-determination. This, after a row over the island’s national anthem escalated from a barroom brawl in Old San Juan to a full-blown diplomatic contretemps. The offending ditty, ‘La Borinqueña’, has been deemed by some colonial nostalgics as ‘too nationalist in tone’, a criticism that, if applied to the British repertoire, would see ‘God Save the King’ banned for its unseemly grovelling to an unelected head of state.
But wait. Let us not be hasty. The UK’s support comes with the caveat of ‘respecting local traditions’, a phrase that in diplomatic circles means ‘we haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on but will nod sagely’. This is the same government that once tried to solve the Falklands crisis by sending a strongly worded memo to a penguin. I have it on good gin-scented authority that the Foreign Office’s ‘Puerto Rico desk’ consists of a man in a damp cardigan who thinks the island is a type of cigar.
Meanwhile, in San Juan, the anthem row has taken a surreal turn. Pro-independence protesters have taken to playing the anthem on ukuleles, bagpipes, and in one instance, a therellophone made from a Pringles can. The governor, a man whose face has the elasticity of a melted candle, declared a state of cultural emergency, ordering all official functions to use the theme tune from ‘Friends’ until further notice. This, of course, has only inflamed matters. The US, still smarting from its awkward position as colonial overlord, has responded by tweeting a link to a Spotify playlist of ‘neutral elevator music’.
But the UK’s intervention is not without precedent. Let us not forget the Great Cornish Hymn War of 2019, when a group of pasty-wielding nationalists attempted to replace ‘Trelawny’ with the Benny Hill theme. That ended with a compromise: a medley that lasts exactly 42 seconds, the official length of Cornish attention span. Or the time Scotland’s unofficial anthem, ‘Flower of Scotland’, was nearly banned for being ‘too sad’ at international rugby matches. The solution was to play it at half-speed so no one could tell if it was mournful or just slow.
The whole affair raises a question: what is an anthem but a jingle for a territory? It has no objective musical merit. ‘La Borinqueña’ is no more or less ludicrous than ‘God Save the King’, with its droning verses about crushing rebellious Scots. But this row isn’t about music. It’s about identity. It’s about the right of a people to choose their own earworm, no matter how tin-eared the imperial powers find it.
And yet, and yet. The UK’s backing is, I suspect, a masterclass in diplomatic misdirection. By supporting Puerto Rico’s cultural rights, we are conveniently ignoring our own domestic anthemic chaos. Northern Ireland may soon demand its anthem be a medley of ‘Danny Boy’ and a foghorn. Wales already has a song that sounds like a drunk man arguing with a sheep. England? England doesn’t even have its own anthem, just a borrowed one that makes us all look like we’re demanding a refund from God.
So let the UK be the patron saint of anthem crises. Let us send a delegation of ours to Puerto Rico, composed of the most tone-deaf diplomats we can find. Let them stand in the Plaza de Armas, mouths agape, as the locals sing ‘La Borinqueña’ with the passion of a thousand hurricanes. And let us, from a safe distance, pretend we understand. For in the end, all anthems are just noise. But it’s our noise. And by God, we’ll sing it if we want to.
The final word goes to a San Juan bartender who summed up the situation perfectly: ‘Señor, you can take our rum, our beaches, our sovereignty. But you will never take our right to sing off-key.’ I’ll raise a glass of dubious gin to that.
